


Purity Control

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 70s music, 80s Music, 8th year common room, 90s music, F/F, F/M, Getting Together, Ginny's not her full name?, Hardcore hand holding, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Muggle Popular Culture, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Redemption, Spreadsheets, Unicorns, brief non-explicit mention of past non-con not between Draco and Harry, data collection, ecological restoration, fantasy Quidditch, felonious hijinx, full frontal feelings, high maintenance Blaise Zabini, reverse-transmuting, unicorn behaviour, unicorn philanthropy, virginity panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: In which Harry tries to ignore his trauma with fantasy Quidditch but Malfoy's Thereness™ is distracting and all his classmates want to talk about are unicorns, virginity, and Muggle music.





	Purity Control

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE NOTE** that this fic contains a very brief, non-explicit mention that Draco experienced sexualised assault during the war.
> 
> This fic is rated T for profane language (my favourite) and discussions of "virginity" (hard air quotes).
> 
>  **Dear **GingerTodgers** ,  
> **  
> Your inspired prompt demanded that I write it. It was a joy and a labour of love and I hope that you like it.
> 
> Here's an accompanying [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/gnwdmwj36epf5my51wu0j2tnc/playlist/2iUJQ40VGEB3wfe1iTyFbr?si=VNoZVw2IQZKPyN7MdVlb0w) for those who want to give it a listen.
> 
>  **Credit where it's due** :  
> Charms over Notting Hill is an invention of the incomparable **[waspabi](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Waspabi)**.
> 
> I was inspired by the professional league fantasy Quidditch in **[zeitgeistic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic)** 's one and only, **[Azoth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049966/chapters/2100285)**.
> 
> The title of this fic is lifted from _The X-Files_ , where it, sadly, has nothing to do with unicorns.
> 
>  **Thanks** :  
> A huge thank you to my betas, **TDCat** and **aibidil** , whose beatification I will be applying for now that this fic is finished and I have time again. Thanks also to **GingerTodgers** for the irresistable prompt, **goldentruth813** for an amazing and inspirational conversation about Harry and Quidditch, **untilourapathy** for letting me check in on how upside-down-face-emoji people would be over a certain spoilery component, and my RL partner, who heroically helped me plot. You all who enriched this story. 
> 
> Thanks also to **TDCat** and **unadulteratedstorycollector** for modding this fest with me. It’s been something the fuck else.  <3
> 
> Finally, huge thank you to **TDCat** for [commissioning the art for me](https://tdcatsblog.tumblr.com/post/173664511099/im-sorry-about-im-sorry-about-a-lot-of), and to [sadfishkid](http://sadfishkid.tumblr.com) for creating such a beautiful piece of art.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer** :  
> Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. No money is being made from this fic. This is purely for entertainment purposes (i.e., me giving myself jollies about unicorns).

On 1 September, 1998, Harry disembarks from the Hogwarts Express, just like he has six times before. He’s come back for his ‘eighth year.’ He doesn’t know why Ron and Hermione and Lavender and Dean and all the others keep calling it that. He never had a seventh year, so he doesn’t see why this should be his eighth one. Luna, Ginny, and other younger friends cum former-DA members now have as much magical education as those in his own year. He’s not clear what distinguishes one group from another, age excepted. He is, however, certain that being hopeless while camping is no more educational than being hopeless in a dungeon or in a school run by Death Eaters.

Whatever.

It’s dark outside as he makes his way, in a group comprising Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny, to the thestral-drawn carriages. They’re chatting jovially about what to expect from the upcoming school year, but Harry’s paying almost no attention. He’s glad to be back—just like he knew he would be. This is _his_ year, he’s already decided. In the six years that he’s spent at Hogwarts, he’s never really been a student proper before. Which is not to say that he hasn’t learned anything here. His classes have been educational enough. But for him Hogwarts has always been more about learning a new charm here or defensive spell there between stints of rigorous time-biding peppered with miraculously non-lethal capers. (Except for that last one, of course.)

But he’s not thinking about what happened in the Forbidden Forest now. Now he’s back. He’s here. He’s at Hogwarts, and this year there’s no Voldemort to fuck him around, to disturb Harry’s sleep or make his scar ache or play on Harry’s worst foibles.

 _It’s my year,_ he thinks, as the reptilian steeds come into view. It’s got to be. I’ve earned it. 

***

“Are you sorry not to be prefects this year, Hermione? Ron?” Neville asks from his spot next to Harry, where they’re sat, along with Hermione, across from Ginny, Ron, and Luna, in the moving carriage.

Hermione leans forward across Harry to respond, “Oh, I don’t know,” she begins, in a tone of forced optimism. “It’s a time consuming position, of course. But highly rewarding. And in the post-war climate—sorry Harry, but it’s just the best shorthand expression for, you know,” she waves her hand around as if to say ‘everything’, “—I do wish I could participate in the effort to reshape the social atmosphere of Hogwarts, though.”

“Right,” Ron appends with a scoff. “You’re not sore at all about not being Head Girl,” he teases playfully.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t have been happy to receive the post. It’s quite an achievement, you know, Percy aside. But now I’ll have more time to concentrate on my N.E.W.Ts.” Her tone is all faux levity. It’s a tone Harry knows well. He’d heard little else for long stints in the tent.

“You’d have been tops as Head Girl, Hermione,” Harry says, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring touch to her forearm. 

“Definitely,” Ginny agrees. “It’s practically criminal that McGonagall made the eighth-years ineligible.”

“It does seem arbitrary and unfair,” Luna adds. And Hermione seems heartened by the show of solidarity. “Then again, the whole Head Boy, Head Girl model is based on the assumption of male and female are universal constants, so it’s not a very good institution to be a part of in the first place, really.”

“Well, in any event, we’ll find out who got the post this evening,” Neville says, clearly unsure what to make of Luna’s philosophical pronouncement.

“Wonder who got Head Boy,” Ron muses out loud. “I reckon it’ll be Corner,” he sneers the name, “He’s prat enough, anyway.”

“If prattishness were the only criterion, McGonagall’d’ve hanged her own stupid rule and named you, Ron,” Ginny teases.

“Oi!” Ron exclaims.

But everyone ignores his outrage in favour of debating who from Ginny and Luna’s year will be enjoying luxury bathrooms and an extended curfew this year.

Harry joins in happily enough. Because he _is_ happy to have a gossip about their fellow students. He wants to talk about classes, and who’s dating whom, and who’s the biggest prat. That’s what students do.

***

When the carriage slows to a halt, the six of them hop out and are only left milling about for a few moments before they’re met with an onslaught of greetings as a group of the returning eighth-years—Dean, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, Padma, Ernie, Justin, Hannah, and Anthony—forms on the dark grounds. Harry is glad to give and receive claps round the shoulder and share “last year, innit!”s with each one of them, though the scars on Lavender’s face tug hard on a cord of guilt inside of him. He does his best to ignore it, and lets himself get swept up in the talk of summer hols and hopeful speculations about where McGonagall has chosen to house the eighth year cohort. 

By the time they break apart to make their respective ways to the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw tables in the Great Hall, Ron is whinging about being ravenous. Shortly after they seat themselves (as far away as possible from the profs—it’s none of their first time at the rodeo) however, Professor Sinistra comes by to chivvy them away from the table once more.

“Up, up, up, Granger, Weasley, Potter, Longbottom, all of you,” she finishes, losing steam. “Headmistress wants you at the eighth-year table,” she instructs, gesturing to a sparsely populated table Harry hadn’t even noticed, nearest the wall.

“What?” asks Harry.

“Why can’t we sit at Gryffindor?” Ron inquires.

“Orders from the top, Weasley,” Professor Sinistra affirms. “Considering it’s the Welcome Feast, let’s oblige the new Head without a fuss, shall we?”

Grumbling, the Gryffindor eighth-years make their way over to their new table, while Sinistra moves on to oust the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs as well. Which, Harry realises, means that those already seated there must be...

“Slytherins?!” Ron exclaims, appalled. “What are they doing back here? I am NOT sitting with a pack of Slytherins!”

“Ugh,” Harry agrees, because, honestly, he does not have the energy to snipe back and forth with Parkinson and Zabini and _Malfoy_ , who’re the only Slytherins sat at the new table. He’s already defeated these people. Literally. And saved them to boot. He doesn’t have anything more to say to them, and he wants nothing more to do with them. He doesn’t even want to bear them any ill will, because indignation is an emotional drain. All he wants is for the three of them not to be here. He wants the most aggravating thing about this year to be Ron and Hermione’s cow eyes or Neville’s snoring. Why can’t the Slytherins just stay away? 

As Harry starts thinking about whether Banishing Spells can be made to work on people, Sinistra is once again upon them, telling to Ron and a group of other vocal table dissenters in no uncertain terms that all of the eighth-years _will_ sit together, regardless of their personal feelings about others at the table. 

“And the Headmistress has asked that you all stay behind after she’s dismissed the rest of the pupils,” Sinistra finishes, not leaving any pause for debate about unworthy dining companions. “There are a few matters she needs to clarify with you all before term begins. Well? Off with you!” she commands, emphasising her instruction with a single sharp clap.

The lot of them amble over to the table in bad spirits, taking seats and dragging their chairs as far away from the Slytherin students as they can without completely invading each others’ personal space. The gap between the large multi-house group and the small Slytherin one is hardly a chasm—there’s simply not enough room—but it speaks volumes. And even if it didn’t, the faces of those seated on both sides certainly would. Some faces are downcast, as though avoiding eye contact will keep them from unwittingly aligning themselves with any side. Others are pulling faces of undisguised superiority and corresponding offence at their unwanted companions. A few, Hermione and a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws among them, are trying to maintain neutral expressions. Draco Malfoy, Harry notices, interest piqued, is doing a rubbish job of trying to look detached, nonchalant, and unconcerned. But the day Malfoy succeeds in concealing anything he’s feeling is the day Harry proposes to Dolores Umbridge. Mostly, Harry thinks, he just looks uncomfortable, a little sick, and, in an odd contrast, determined.

Harry is still staring at Malfoy when Professor Sinistra, whom Harry supposes he should have deduced by now was the new Deputy Head, commences the Sorting Ceremony.

Ron, sitting next to him, elbows Harry in the ribs and says, “Better not be any hat stalls in this lot.” He gestures to the crowd of first-years, huddled near the doors of the Great Hall. “I’m ravenous.”

Harry, who to be fair, is solely focussed on maintaining until he can tuck into some shepherd’s pie, forces a grin and agrees.

***

When the Sorting is through, the lavish feast consumed, and McGonagall’s opening remarks concluded, the Great Hall is filled with the sounds of hundreds of chair legs scraping the floor and students chatting among themselves—first-years worrying about getting off on the wrong foot tomorrow, older students catching up with friends, some of whom they haven’t seen in over a year, thanks to their parents pulling them out of school the year before. As the last few students are ushered out by the respective prefects, McGonagall strides over to the eighth-years, all sat impatiently at the table, antagonistic glares returning in the absence of distracting yorkshire puddings, roasts, trifles, and treacle tarts.

Harry knows and certainly respects Minerva McGonagall enough not to fool himself that she doesn’t notice the animosity around the table, yet she does not address it directly. Instead, she gets straight to her point. 

“Welcome back, eighth-years. I wish to make a few ground rules quite plain before the term officially begins. As it was already dark when you arrived, you won’t have seen that the Hogwarts grounds are still devastated from the effects of the Death Eater occupation and the battle in May. With this in mind, the eighth-years will all have an additional, mandatory course as a group this school year: Care of Magical Creatures—”

“What?!” exclaim several people, including, Harry can’t help but notice, Malfoy, who has heretofore been silent.

“But I dropped that back in fifth year,” whinges Justin.

“Not the Skrewts again!”

“Of all the wastes of time.”

“Enough!” states McGonagall, and everyone falls silent. “Care of Magical Creatures is of the utmost importance this year. There is much magic can do, but it cannot reverse ecological devastation in just four months. As a class, you’ll be working with Hagrid to rehabilitate animals whose habitats and behaviours were, at best, tampered with, and at worst, destroyed during the occupation. I cannot overstress the renewed importance of this class. Moreover, I trust you are all bright enough to realise the vast range of magical skills you will have a chance to hone and practice as you meet the unique challenges that will face you on the ground, as it were.”

Clearly not wanting to challenge McGonagall’s faith in their intelligence and abilities, everyone keeps their mouths shut, although a few scowls betray lingering, internal disquiet.

“What about the rest of our courses, Professor? Will we still have the same distinct classes we were enrolled in during our six and seventh years?” asks Ernie deferentially.

“Yes, and have you introduced any changes to the grading structure, Professor?” Hermione appends, clearly concerned.

“You are all still enrolled in every N.E.W.T. class you were before the occupation, Mr MacMillan,” McGonagall answers. “And grading remains in the hands of each professor, Miss Granger. However, I wish to impress upon all of you that Care of Magical Creatures, though unexpected, should be taken seriously. The staff and I are in agreement that it will stand you in good stead for your an additional N.E.W.T., should you apply yourself. For those of you who favour practical magic to reading and theory, your ship has come in,” she nods here to the Gryffindor boys, making no effort to be discreet.

“Professor,” chimes in Lavender, sounding apprehensive, “will we share the rest of our classes with the seventh year Gryffindors?”

“Yes, Miss Brown,” McGonagall assures. “And with that settled,” she continues, as though no doubts had been raised, “there are only a few more matters to discuss. Firstly, your housing arrangements. I wish to remind you that you are all, first and foremost, students here. However, the reality is that you are also more than that. You are all of age, and, what’s more, virtually everyone who stands before me fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Many of the professors feel that your notoriety… would best be mitigated by having you sleep and eat at your own table and in your own dormitory.”

“You mean we’ll have a co-ed dorm?!” Parvati squeals, sounding part scandalised, part excited.

“I did not just fall off the turnip truck, Miss Patil,” McGonagall responds sharply, though with a tiny, knowing smile. “You will all share a common room, but there will be two separate dormitories.”

“You mean we won’t be in Ravenclaw Tower?” asks Anthony Goldstein, sounding uncertain.

“Wicked, our own dorm!” says Seamus, loudly, pumping his fist as though celebrating a victory.

“We’re sharing? All of us?” repeats Pansy Parkinson, speaking for the first time that Harry has heard this evening, voice sounding apprehensive.

“That’s right, Miss Parkinson,” McGonagall answers flatly. “Which brings me to my last point. Like it or not, the younger students look to you as their example, not only as friends and senior students, but, now, as noted war veterans. You will keep this in mind, and all get along and provide a model of unity this year. Next year, this task will be left to others. But for now, I am sure you will not let me down when I ask you to rise to this occasion. Hogwarts has been through much. All of you have. But we all must carry on.” McGonagall pauses for a moment. For a brief instant, Harry worries that she might tear up, but she continues with no break in composure. “Well, that’s enough of that. If you would all please form a queue and collect your timetables before I show you to your new quarters.”

***

When they follow McGonagall into their new common room, they are greeted by a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace that forms the functional centre of the room. 

Harry notices Malfoy’s body tense as they enter, but before he can process this, Parkinson draws her wand, quick as a flash, and spells away with the fire, leaving the grate looking cold and unused.

“What was that for, Parkinson?” Lavender demands.

“It’s not even autumn,” Parkinson responds, defiance overcoming her earlier reticence. “It’s not as though we need a fire tonight.”

McGonagall looks a little bemused, but proceeds as though her tour had not been interrupted.

Once McGonagall has pointed out the proximity to the staff room (as though in caution) and informed them that the girls’ dormitory is up the left-hand staircase, the boys’ up the right, she leaves the pack of them to catch up and gripe about the unexpected direction of their studies.

“McGonagall must have been serious about the state of the grounds,” Ron reflects from where he’s sat in an enormous, squishy armchair. He points down to his timetable, spread out in his lap. “We have Care of Magical Creatures scheduled three days a week. And it’s our first class tomorrow!”

“At least we don’t have to wait to see Hagrid,” Harry responds. And he means it. Between the Ministry calling him in to testify in trials all summer and Molly Weasley coddling him in between testimonies, Harry’s had disappointingly little time to spend with his surviving friends. He should have been celebrating, he thinks. They all should have. But the government couldn’t just shut down, especially not with war crimes to try.

But he’s here now. He’s at Hogwarts. He’s going to focus on classes, on gossip, on which of the older House Quidditch players are being courted by various national and professional teams. He may not be able to play for Gryffindor this year, but perhaps he could start some pick-up games among the eighth-years, or even fantasy Quidditch...

“Nothing against Hagrid, of course,” Ernie says a bit hesitantly. “You won’t find a nicer chap. But I did drop Care of Magical Creatures in fifth year. I don’t see why I should have to take it now...”

“Come on, Ernie,” Neville admonishes. “McGonagall thinks we all need to. School needs our help, she said.”

“Well, it’s all right for you, Neville,” Justin cuts in. “You’re, you know,” Justin waves his hand about dismissively, “an outdoorsman.”

“I’ll say,” Padma says, with no hint of abashedness. 

Neville’s cheeks pinken, and he looks at the floor.

Padma’s not wrong, of course. Neville’s more than grown into himself since the end of their sixth year. Not that his appearance has changed much. Sure, Harry’s noticed that he’s taller. He’s probably about six feet. But aside from that, he’s got the same round face and the same soft bulge at his middle. It’s the way he carries himself that’s changed, that makes him so striking these days. Leading a group of student rebels agreed with Neville and seems to have brought out his confidence. He walks taller now, shares his opinion more freely and with more conviction. Harry thinks that Neville today would be a more effective and rousing DA leader than fifteen-year-old Harry, or maybe even Harry today… 

Of course, whenever anyone mentions Neville’s attractiveness or flirts with him—a not-unusual occurrence since he decapitated a serpentine soul-receptacle of the darkest wizard in magical British memory—he’s back to his timid thirteen-year-old self.

“Yes, yes. We all know Longbottom can wear a cardigan. But I agree with MacMillan. We should still have some say in our timetables,” says Blaise Zabini. 

Harry had not forgotten that the Slytherins were still here. He’d have liked to, but couldn’t manage it. 

“Who asked you, Zabini?” Harry snaps. 

Hermione, sat cross-legged on the plush rug between Ron’s armchair and the sofa on which Harry is perched, immediately reaches out her hand and touches Harry’s leg lightly and briefly. 

“We do still have some say, anyhow,” says Parvati. She’s sat next to Lavender on the staircase leading up to their new dormitory. 

“Yeah,” agrees Lavender, “McGonagall says all our other courses are the same. I don’t know about you lot, but I didn’t fight and get maimed defending Hogwarts just to abandon it in its hour of need.” Parvati gently takes Lavender’s hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. She doesn’t let go; their hands rest gently on Parvati’s thigh.

“Hear, hear,” says Hannah.

“I know you lot fancy yourselves some kind of virtuous little veteran’s club, but this is still a school. I’m supposed to be learning, not… labouring,” Zabini concludes. “And anyway, if we are repairing the grounds, shouldn’t we be compensated?”

“Oh please, don’t pretend you know anything about organised labour, Zabini,” says Justin.

Privately, Harry doubts a toff like Justin knows much more about organised labour than Zabini. As he’s so often found, though, he’ll take his allies where they come. He’s glad to hear people defending Hagrid’s class, even if it’s only to get one up on a Slytherin.

“And besides,” says Padma, chest puffing out a bit with pride, “we effectively _are_ a veterans’ club. Everyone here fought in the battle, after all. Everyone except you and Parkinson, that is.”

Zabini scowls at Padma, while Parkinson keeps her eyes steadfastly trained upon the ground. Malfoy looks like he wants to bolt.

“What about Draco, then?” Zabini challenges.

“Leave me out of this,” Malfoy says to Zabini, quietly, but audibly to all.

“Well, technically he is a veteran, too,” says Hermione, who’s never met the technicality she could resist explaining. “Though, for the other side, of course…” Hermione peters out and the room falls silent.

This is exactly what Harry was looking forward to getting away from back at Hogwarts. He’s sick to death of talking about the war. He’s lost enough of his youthful school years to Voldemort. He’s not letting that dead bastard have this one too—the last one.

“Ron,” Harry says, determined to nip this conversation in the bud, “you know anything about fantasy Quidditch? Fancy a friendly competition when the season strikes up?”

“Fantastic idea, mate!” Ron says enthusiastically.

“I can come up with a scoring system,” Padma interjects unexpectedly. She frowns at Harry and Ron’s surprise—it must show on their faces. “I’ve always thought the WWN’s system is good, but with a little tinkering…”

And with that, the three of them begin comparing posible House Team rosters and speculating about each team’s respective strengths and weaknesses.

***

The following morning the eighth-years make their way from the Great Hall to their first lesson of the term. 

Well, most of them do. 

“Where are the Slytherins?” Harry asks Hermione as he plonks himself down next to where she’s already sat finishing her breakfast primly. 

“The Slytherins ate early,” she answers. 

“All of them? Malfoy too?”

“Yes,” Hermione replies slowly, vowel elongated for emphasis.

“Well, where is he now then?”

“He?” Hermione prods.

“Them. Come on, Hermione, you know what I mean.” Harry doesn’t need Hermione’s concerned expression. He knows how he sounds. It’s almost like he can’t control it. He desperately wants to have a pleasant school year—one with no mysteries, no investigating; one where no one needs to be surveilled or saved or thwarted. That’s how school is supposed to be.

And yet, he cannot seem to stop from thinking about Malfoy—about the Slytherins—since he saw them at the new communal table. 

“But honestly, what are they doing here? Zabini took off to save his own skin, obviously, so I guess maybe he didn’t really fancy leaving school. But Parkinson tried to give me up! And that’s to say nothing of Malfoy. She might be a cow, but at least Parkinson never actively tried to bring down the school.” Harry shuts his mouth before he spews out, _Not like Malfoy, with his cupboard and his tinkering and his pride._

“I’m not the Slytherins’ keeper, Harry,” Hermione admonishes. 

“I know you’re not. But you don’t miss a beat, so where’d they get off to?”

Hermione’s look tells Harry that his flattery is about as subtle as a sack of hammers, and yet, it’s still successful.

Hermione sighs. “I was in the common room studying when they headed down for breakfast earlier. By the time I got here, they were leaving for the grounds, to wait for class, I expect. And who can blame, them, really? It’s not as though any of them is popular around here anymore. It must be terribly uncomfortable.”

“Who cares?” says Ron. “They made their beds, Hermione. If they wanted to win popularity contests, then this wasn’t the place to come. I’m surprised they have the gall to show their faces, actually. They can hardly expect people to forget what happened.”

 

“I didn’t say anything about forgetting, Ron,” Hermione counters. “But it does seem harsh that they have to spend this whole year as outcasts. I mean, they were all caught up in things because of their parents, really, weren’t they?”

“Come off it, Hermione,” Ron begins.

“Nevermind. That was rhetorical. Let’s just head to class. It’ll be good to see Hagrid, like you said last night, Harry.”

Harry smiles in agreement, genuinely perked up about the prospect of seeing Hagrid back on the Hogwarts grounds, where he belongs.

 _Where we all belong_ , Harry thinks. _Most of us, anyway._

***

As nine o’clock approaches, the eighth-years, minus the Slytherin contingent, leave the table en masse and head for the grounds. They’re speculating about what to expect from Care of Magical Creatures, as Lavender, who’s at the front of the pack, pushes open one of the massive castle doors. As they step through, the gasps are audible. 

Last night’s trip across the grounds had been made well after sunset. In the light of day, however, it’s all too clear to Harry (and to his fellows, if their reactions are anything to go by) that, if anything, McGonagall had played down the extent of the damage. It’s like a sucker punch to Harry’s gut. It’s like nothing has changed since that morning in May.

But Harry doesn’t want to think about what happened here in May, so he squints instead to try and assess from afar the damage to Hagrid’s hut. He’s relieved to see it’s standing.

“Thank goodness,” Hermione says under her breath. “Hagrid’s hut doesn’t look bad.”

Considering it was in flames the last time Harry was on the grounds as a student, he can only agree.

“Must have been rebuilt,” Ron adds.

The greenhouses, however, are still in ruins. 

“Professor Sprout will have to start from scratch,” Neville laments, pointing.

Padma claps Neville round the shoulder. “We’ll help. This is why McGonagall’s setting us to work.”

The grounds at large are peppered with detritus—odd stones, stumps, and other random bits of shrapnel from the battle. The contrast with the castle, returned to its intact state over the summer, is almost comical. Clearly the professors had given all their attention to getting the castle back to a livable state. Apparently there had been no time left to address the grounds. And so, once again, Harry thinks, he’s at Hogwarts cleaning up after Voldemort.

They walk towards Hagrid in near silence, making only small utterances to point out particular bits of damage or wonder at the state the Quidditch Pitch must be in or marvel at how the professors managed to get the castle in order to quickly. Walking to Care of Magical Creatures and seeing the devastation of the grounds in the light of day makes Harry feel sick. He’s actually nauseated. He tries not to think about it. He thinks instead about Hagrid, who’s still here, who’s still _alive_ , and keeps walking.

***

“We’ll be workin’ with a few different species, but the unicorns were ‘specially hard hit,” Hagrid tells them during their first class of the year. “Not sure what the Death Eaters were doin’ with ‘em. Doesn’t bear thinking about. Best just ter crack on with helpin’ em replenish their numbers and rehabilitate their habitat.”

“We’re going to be breeding unicorns?” Lavender practically shrieks, apparently overcome at the prospect.

“‘S right, Lavender,” Hagrid beams at the show of enthusiasm.

“But won’t that mean working up close with them, Hagrid?” Ron asks, sounding a bit unnerved. 

“O’ course,” Hagrid confirms with a jovial nod. 

At this, Ron, and, Harry notices, all of the other pure-bloods and most of the half-bloods in the class, share shifty glances.

“What’re you lot pulling faces for? I know unicorns can be a bit intimidatin’, but I’ll be showing you how to care for ‘em as we go, and you’ll be dab hands at it before you can say ‘foal,’” Hagrid assures.

“But Hagrid,” says Seamus, sounding slightly less brazen than usual. “How can we work with unicorns? Won’t they… you know, avoid some of us?”

“Sure, they keep to ‘emselves, but we’ll take it nice and easy, start with fixing up their habitat, and they’ll get used ter ya.”

“Finnigan’s just worried the unicorns will out him as a virgin,” says Zabini with a knowing smirk.

“Codswallop,” Hagrid responds, his face visibly flushing above his beard. “People spout all kinds o’ nonsense ‘bout unicorns. Prefer girls to boys, an all… Rubbish. They like me fine.”

“But that’s because it’s _you_ isn’t it, Hagrid?” Neville asks. “All animals like you.” 

“Well, er,” Hagrid stammers, clearly flattered. “They can just tell when people respect ‘em, like all prideful animals. Come to class ready to work, and they’ll respond ter ya. Regardless of… er… anything.” Hagrid trails off, uncomfortably.

Harry, whose gaze has been shifting frequently to check up on the Slytherins, catches Malfoy stiffen, clenching from his jaw to his fists. He looks shifty as fuck.

***

After Hermione asks Hagrid about the possibility of interacting with the mermaids and centaurs (“They’re takin’ care o’ their own reconstructions, Hermione.” “But they must be entitled to aid from the Ministry!”), the eighth-years had gone their separate ways, each according to their own timetable.

It’s not until they’re all crowded back into the eighth-year common room that Harry begins to understand how seriously his peers are taking this business with the unicorns. They’ve grown up knowing that unicorns are real, not to mention hearing all kinds of tales about them, tall and otherwise. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had hardly kept Harry well informed about fairy stories and folklore. He remembers going over unicorns with Grubbly-Plank in his fifth-year, but she’d kept the boys in the class at a distance, apparently buying into what Hagrid had dismissed out of hand as ‘rubbish.’ Between Grubbly-Plank’s girls to the front policy, Voldemort regularly infiltrating his mind, and his own leadership of an underground government-resistance group, Harry rather thinks his fifteen-year-old self can be pardoned for not remembering everything there is to know about unicorns. 

“We should petition McGonagall,” Seamus says. Several in the group nod their agreement, while others roll their eyes.

“I guess we know where you stand, Finnigan,” remarks Zabini from where he’s sat with his only two housemates close to the fireplace, despite its current cool state. The Slytherins sat there last night too, Harry’d noticed. He assumes it must be learned behaviour from spending the lion’s share of seven years living in a damp dungeon in the frigid highlands. Yet, he also notes that, despite the absence of a fire, Malfoy is sat farthest from the hearth. Zabini is lounging on the stone lip that protrudes out from the fireplace, with Parkson sat next to him in an armchair. Malfoy is perched on the arm of her chair on the far side of the fireplace. “Thomas not putting out?” Zabini adds, and his tone suggests that he’s trying to be amusing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Parvati says, jumping to Seamus’s defense. “If that’s supposed to be a dig about being gay—”

“Keep your knickers on, Patil,” Zabini says, holding up his hands as though to prevent a barrage. “I only meant that everyone knows about unicorns and virgins.” Zabini has a grin on his face; he’s unmistakably relishing stirring the shit cauldron.

“Oh what rubbish,” interjects Hermione. “Magic can conjure something from what seems to be nothing, but it has to draw on something. Virginity is a thing of the human imagination. Therefore there is nothing unicorns could actually draw on to distinguish a ‘virgin,’” she pauses here to add rabbit ears to her skeptical tone, “from someone who’s had sex.”

The Ravenclaws in the room—Padma, Anthony, and Luna (who, along with Ginny, had showed up after dinner, despite all of the eighth-years insisting they hadn’t blabbed about where their new quarters were located)—seem to consider this. 

“That’s an interesting hypothesis, Hermione,” Padma adds after a moment, “but what about the possibility that unicorns can discern anatomical differences in human bodies?”

“Oh, so, they have X-ray vision and can tell if a woman has an intact hymen? Muggles have known for years that a broken hymen can result from a variety of non-sexual activities. And in any case, how could they discern a male ‘virgin’?” Hermione says.

“What’s an ex ray?” Anthony inquires.

Hermione answers him. “A Muggle machine that creates images of the insides of things. It’s mainly used in medicine, to check for broken bones, or internal growth and things.”

The Ravenclaws consider this as the rest of the students look on with vague interest.

Draco Malfoy, who’s been doing his best to remain inconspicuous (and failing) since Zabini started volleying insults at Seamus, has what looks to Harry like a ray of hope in his eyes at Hermione’s words. Trust Malfoy to be shallow enough to be fussed about people finding out he’s a virgin. Did the war put nothing into perspective for him?

“What do you think about a petition, Harry?” Ernie asks him. “McGonagall would have to take it seriously if it came from you.”

“Hm?” Harry turns his attention from Malfoy to Ernie. “Oh sure,” Harry answers sarcastically a moment later. “Dear Professor McGonagall, we the Hogwarts eighth-years, know the school has been devastated and needs all hands on deck, but we _really_ don’t want everyone to know we’re virgins. Please excuse us from lessons with unicorns.” 

Everybody laughs goodnaturedly.

“Yeah, Ernie, I think she’ll _definitely_ take that as serious as a _Stupefy_ ,” Harry jokes.

“Well there must by other ways of getting around it,” says Ginny, who’s always up for a spot of scheming.

“I agree,” says Padma, albeit in tones that suggest intellectual curiosity rather than an impulse towards image-preservation or mischief making.

“Of course there are, Patil,” Zabini pipes up again. “Everyone who’s still an ickle virgin can get down to business.”

“Don’t be crass, Zabini,” Justin responds. “I think Padma’s idea has merit. Sex comes down to pheromones, right? So what about a scent-masking potion?”

“What are ferehmones?” Parkinson ventures to ask, seemingly overcome by her curiosity. Indeed, if the faces of her fellow pure-bloods are any indication, she’s voicing a common question.

“They’re not even proven in humans,” Hermione answers, exasperated. “But the theory is that humans, like non-human animals, secrete subtle odors that attract or repel potential mates.”

“Oh! Perhaps a Polyjuice variant, then?” suggests Luna. She and her fellow Ravenclaws look considerably more engaged now that the possibilities of magical theory and potion creation are on the table.

“Not nearly enough time for that, Luna,” Anthony says. “Nevermind the time we’d need to craft a variant; it takes a full-moon cycle to brew.”

“Who cares? Just get a leg over,” advises Zabini.

“Or better yet, forget those Puritanical unicorns and what anyone thinks!” Parvati cries.

Lavender, Luna, Ginny, and, to Harry’s surprise, Hermione, Neville, and Parkinson, all nod or raise a fist in solidarity with Parvati’s sentiments.

Seamus, however, is unwilling to let the subject drop. “There are other ways to mask smells, though,” he continues, determined. 

“What about a simple perfume, then?” Ginny suggests. “Between Lavender and Parvati there must be enough perfume around here to drench every one of you.”

“And you’ll all be happy to pay to replenish our supplies afterward, will you?” Lavender questions.

Harry tunes out the rest of the conversation. He’s never enjoyed his private business being made public knowledge, but he supposes cheating the Long Dirt Nap shifts one’s priorities; the prospect of his schoolmates finding out he’s still holding onto his virginity just doesn’t instill him with any dread. Well, not much, anyway. It’s not like the unicorns will give away his total inexperience, after all. Everyone will know he’s a virgin, but they won’t be privy to the (not so) dirty details.

Malfoy, Harry notices, is pulling his thinking face. Which is to say, his brow is tightly furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin, pale line—well, a thinner and paler one than usual. 

The conversation only picks up speed as the hours tick by and midnight approaches. Harry is one of several quiet bystanders to a scene in which Hermione, control freak par excellence, has become the quasi-official leader of an endeavour she continually reminds the rest of them is pointless. The suggestions about scent masking have led to an enthusiastic debate between Hermione, Luna, Padma, Justin, and Anthony.

Harry hasn’t been keeping up with the threads of the debate. His attention is drawn instead here and there to the faces of his friends and erstwhile rivals alike. A few minutes ago Luna had said something about Amortentia, and the look of pure desire Ginny had shot her had made Harry’s heart feel genuinely relieved for the first time he can recall in months. 

Luna’s idea—whatever it is—seems to gain traction. Harry doesn’t care about their plans per se, but every few moments, a scoff or a snort from Malfoy draws his focus (and grates his nerves). 

After a particularly obnoxious noise from Malfoy, Harry snaps. “Malfoy, shut it, would you?” 

“Actually, Draco,” Luna says, “if you’ve got ideas, then you can come over here and help us work this out.”

“What makes you think I care about this sad little scheme?” Malfoy counters. He sounds nonchalant, but the way Malfoy’s glance casts arounds the room to gauge people’s interest in his involvement gives him away.

“The nose and throat noises you’re making every few minutes,” Luna responds earnestly.

“Well you’re going about it all wrong. You need to reverse-transmute the Amortentia, not just modify it.”

“Explain,” Padma commands, pointing a finger at Malfoy declaratively.

“Please. We could use your help,” Luna affirms sweetly.

Harry wonders if Malfoy can’t bring himself to deny the open request of a woman once held prisoner below his family drawing room, because Malfoy heaves an affected sigh and pushes himself up from his spot on the arm of Parkinson’s chair. He practically pours himself into a seat with the little group of rebel potioneers, doing his best to convey a sense that he is above the whole affair. The effect, in Harry’s view, is rather undone by the fact that Malfoy is entertaining the idea so judiciously in the first place.

“It’s obvious to anyone with an ounce of potions instinct,” Malfoy says, “that it’s pointless to try and control the scents the unicorns perceive. What you need to do is alter the odours the potion’s drinkers exude.”

The Ravenclaws all look to be mulling this over.

“Huh,” Hermione says after a moment. “Well shit. He’s right.”

Malfoy smiles smugly, and even though the expression makes him look like a grade-A prick, Harry wonders when the last time was that Malfoy, junior host to Lord Voldemort, had anything to smile about.

***

After dinner the following day, the eighth-years press Hermione, Luna, Padma, Justin, Anthony, and Malfoy to brew the potion they’d theorised about the night before. Even those who’d poked fun at Seamus last night got on the bandwagon once it seemed they wouldn’t be giving up their own sexual status by doing so. 

The deAlchemists (as Justin had uncreatively named them) claim to need an evening to work out all the kinks, but assure the rest that the potion should only take a day to brew, and can thus be ready for their next Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

Zabini is the only holdout. “What do I need some potion for? Everyone already knows I’m not a virgin.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because you can’t stop talking about yourself for five minutes, you ego maniac,” Parkinson says. “You don’t know the meaning of ‘TMI.’”

Zabini shrugs. 

Harry thinks she’s right, but manages not to laugh at the dig at Zabini, though the rest of the room does.

***

Even with a plan locked and loaded, unicorns and potions and sex remain the only topics of conversation with any staying power in the eighth-year common room the following day.

Harry and Neville are cheering Ron in a chess match against Ernie as the deAlchemists check and recheck magical-chemical calculations. It’s a rare, quiet moment when Dean looks up from his sketchbook and sighs, “I wish I could use my CD-player here.”

“No kidding,” Seamus agrees.

“I reckon we could get a wireless in here,” Neville suggests.

Dean seems interested in the possibility, but Parkinson pipes up. “Ugh, half of the WWN’s broadcasts are talk shows about the Top 10 Ways to De-Gnome a Garden or soap operas so dull even my grandmother can’t be bothered to tune in.”

“Pull the other one, Pans,” Zabini says, disbelieving. “If you’re not up-to-date on Charms over Notting Hill, I’ll feed my kettle to Goldstein.”

Harry still can’t say he comprehends the nuances of Slytherin friendships. They appear markedly more… adversarial than those among Gryffindors.

“All I meant, Blaise _dear_ , is a wireless is not an ideal solution to a lack of music,” Parkinson replies.

“Well that is fair enough,” Zabini concedes. “I know our numbers are small in the magical community, but you’d think we could produce a few more musical acts than The Weird Sisters and Celestina Warbeck.”

‘Hear, hear,” agrees Ernie.

“Are there not many magical bands?” inquires Hermione. “Muggles are prolific at producing musical acts. More than one person could ever dream of listening to, or even learning the names of.”

“I have about a hundred favourites,” Seamus adds in agreement.

“Sounds lovely,” Luna says wistfully. “Dean, will you play your cee-dee for us? I’ll bet you’re very talented!”

“It doesn’t work quite like that, Luna,” Dean answers, with a kind laugh. “A CD-player is a Muggle electronic device. You put discs with musical recordings into it and it plays them out loud.”

Dean’s description is followed with by a round of “Oh!”s and “Sounds cool!”s from the whole group.

“Do you reckon we could adjust it to work on magic, Hermione?” Padma asks.

“Ravenclaws! Honestly...” remarks Justin, shaking his head. “We don’t need to reinvent the wheel here. Hogwarts is bound to have a gramophone somewhere. We’ll get one in here, hit it with a Sonorus, and those of us with Muggle families can write home for some LPs.”

“That is brilliant, actually, Justin,” Hermione says. “I’ll have my parents send along what they have. I’ll bet they can even send us a catalogue or something we can order from!”

“I don’t think many bands release vinyl records these days, Hermione,” Harry says.

“Pretentious bands do,” Justin counters. “I’m sure if we send some requests to my sister, she’ll go shopping for us.”

“That’s more like it!” Parkinson says, to the surprise of Harry, and, if facial expressions are anything to go by, most rest of the room. But Malfoy doesn’t look surprised. He looks like he wishes she hadn’t spoken. So does Harry, come to that. He has nothing against music, but he doesn’t fancy getting _chummy_ and listening to _tunes_ with the Slytherins. 

Of course, he doesn’t fancy agreeing with Malfoy either.

“And Hermione, if your parents send us some stuff, we should have a mix of genres and decades. It’ll be fun,” Justin appends. 

“Ooh! We could throw some real parties if we had music about the place,” enthuses Lavender.

“Yes!” 

“Great idea, Lav!”

“And here I thought living out of the dungeon meant a sad, partyless year,” quips Parkinson, who seems to be coming more to life now that the possibility of a party is in the air.

“Yeah, it’ll be a real treat,” says Malfoy, quietly, but unmistakably sarcastically. 

“What, Malfoy? A teenagers’ party not good enough for you? Popular music too common?” asks Harry.

For a brief moment, a shifty look crosses Malfoy’s face, as though he wants out of this, wishes he’d said nothing. His habit of reacting to Harry must trump his newfound desire to avoid attention, though, as he rebuts, “Of course not, Potter. I always dreamed I’d spend my final year at Hogwarts listening to music that a bunch of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs think is good.” 

Before Harry can tell Malfoy in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t have to listen to the music, doesn’t have to party with them, because he can, for preference, fuck right off out of here so they can have a good time without interlopers, Justin interrupts.

“Don’t worry, Malfoy,” he says with superior grin that suggests he’s relishing having one so completely over on Malfoy. “You’ll like Blur. It’s practically your duty as an Englishman.”

Harry can’t decide who deserves a smack most: Malfoy for effectively gate crashing Harry’s final school year, or Justin and Ernie and Lavender and Luna and the lot of them for enabling it.

***

By the next day, Hermione’s owl to her parents requesting some long playing records hasn’t been returned. Justin’s sister, who also lives in the south of England, hasn’t answered either. Dean’s family, however, live in the north, and they, along with Seamus’s cousins, have supplied the first shipment of albums to the eighth-year common room by the morning post. 

“Yes!” Dean shouts, ripping the paper off of a square parcel. 

Seamus whoops beside him. “It’s going to be a good night, mates!” he announces to the table at large.

“Seamus! We’re supposed to be brewing an incredibly complex potion that we’ve just invented for _you_ today, if you recall,” Hermione admonishes.

“Come on, Hermione,” Seamus says, enthusiasm undiminished. “The potion is for the good of us all and everyone knows it. And anyway, we’ll save the music to celebrate when you’re all finished!”

“Fine,” Hermione agrees. “But I want quiet while we’re working.”

“You’ve got it, Hermione,” says Ron. “Brewing first, celebrating your genius by partying after.”

***

Harry supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when the brewing goes off without a hitch, considering the group of students that comprise the deAlchemists. Though, how anyone can look at Malfoy’s face without feeling a bit of aggro is lost on him. He supposes it’s just one of life’s mysteries. 

He’s still feeling aggro, though. Because even though he can’t see Malfoy’s stupid face, he can hear his annoying voice ordering the others about. And, honestly, who put Malfoy in charge? Harry stares at the back of Malfoy’s head. He’s cut his hair since his trial. It’s very closely cropped, which sort of diminishes the strikingness of the blond colour. Malfoy’s still attention grabbing, of course. Something about him demands attention. It must be bred into him, Harry thinks.

“Knut for your thoughts, mate?” Ron says, plopping down next to Harry on the sofa. 

“Oh, I’m not really thinking about anything.”

“Come on, Harry. I can tell something’s bothering you. And it’s not just today, either.”

“There’s nothing Ron. Honestly.”

Ron gives him a look that plainly says: ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, thanks.’

Harry relents. “I just don’t know why they have to be here, in our common room, at our table, in our classes. At Hogwarts.”

Harry doesn’t specify who “they” are, but he doesn’t have to. He knows Ron gets it. Ron always gets it. And besides, Ron’s always been as feisty as Harry about Slytherins, if not as feisty as Harry about Malfoy, in particular.

Ron glances over at Malfoy—who looks to be supervising Anthony’s cauldron stirring, the egoic prat.

“Well, I mean… I wouldn’t have them here either, if I could choose. But what can we do about it, really?” 

Harry says nothing. He wants Ron to commiserate with him, not to be the voice of reason and placation. If he wanted that, he’d have shared his feelings with Hermione.

“And besides,” Ron continues cautiously, filling the silence. “It’s pretty funny the way Zabini and Parkinson insult each other.”

Harry is saved from having to pretend he doesn’t agree with that when a “Yes!” from one of the deAlchemists captures Ron’s—and everyone else’s—attention. 

“Give me a smack,” says Luna cheerfully.

“Kinky, Lovegood,” quips Zabini without looking up from the book he’s reading.

“It’s called a high five, Luna,” Hermione says as she slaps her hand against Luna’s. Soon Hermione and Luna are high-fiving the other deAlchemists, and the gesture ripples through the group’s various members. After pausing for a long moment’s consideration, Hermione lifts her hand to high-five Malfoy, who looks at her raised palm with wide eyes, before drawing in a breath and slapping it off-centredly. Malfoy then high-fives the others as well.

Malfoy is high-fiving Hermione, who was tortured by his aunt in his ancestral home, and Luna, who was held captive there.

Harry is working himself up into an internal tizzy when Seamus announces: “It’s time you all learned a proper appreciation for classical Irish music.”

“Celtic music?” Malfoy asks, the façade of aloofness he’d shown on their first night back apparently thawing further. Harry wishes Malfoy had the decency to keep his distance, despite the group’s overall graciousness. Harry knows and loves Hermione and Luna, and he knows they’re too good not to forgive Malfoy, to include him. He wishes Malfoy had enough sense of shame to decline their friendly advances.

“U2,” replies Seamus, grinning madly as he removes an album from the sleeve and lowers it with loving care onto the gramophone Ginny had procured. (They hadn’t asked questions.)

“I what?” asks Malfoy, confused.

“Just shut up and listen, Malfoy.”

And Malfoy does shut up, which is a tiny victory, Harry admits. But he’ll take them where they come at the moment.

“Why does Finnigan get first pick?” asks Zabini, who, Harry is realising, is a contrarian of the first order. Everyone joins in ignoring the question.

“Play Even Better Than The Real Thing!” Dean requests.

“Patience is a virtue, Dean,” Seamus advises. “We’re listening to the whole album.”

And they do. 

Staring at the ceiling from his four poster that night, Harry wishes his mind would stop replaying the looks of tentative appreciation on Malfoy’s face as he’d tapped along to the upbeat tracks and listened attentively to the ballads, swaying slightly in time with Parkinson and Zabini.

***

The next morning, the eighth-years all take breakfast early enough to make it back to the common room in time to dose themselves with the reverse-engineered Amortentia before heading to Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

“How come I can’t smell anything?” Hannah asks.

“Because it acts like the opposite of Amortentia, Hannah,” Hermione says, as though answering questions is a reflex. Which, for her, it is.

“How’s that?” Ron inquires.

“It’s quite clever actually,” says Hermione, with a slight nod to Malfoy. “Amortentia affects the olfactory experience of those who smell it. But this variant doesn’t act until it touches the skin, at which point it makes the wearer smell like the odours they would normally smell in Amortentia.”

“So everyone’s going to know what our Amortentia smells like instead?” Harry asks. Because he might not care much if they all know he’s a virgin, but having the whole group know his deepest attractions is a whole other cauldron of cakes.

“There are more than ten of us, Potter,” says Malfoy, clearly defensive of his potion. “You’d have to have an incredible sense of smell to detect any single fragrances, I’d wager.”

“Right then, shall we all go at once?” suggests Ernie.

“Good idea, Ern,” agrees Justin. “Just dab a little on. Under the arms or jaw will do—anywhere near a gland, really.”

***

Harry thinks they should have considered that the natural consequence of making themselves smelly would be that they would all stink.

“What’s going on with you lot?” Hagrid demands, when the eighth-years arrive for class. “Yeh stink to high Hogsmeade!”

No one offers an explanation.

“Someone had better tell me what’s got into yeh—and onto yeh. I can’t take yeh anywhere near the unicorns like this. They’ve a powerful sense of smell, unicorns. It’d be torture for ‘em to smell yeh like this.”

Hannah lets slip a nervous and guilty giggle. 

“Oh, yeh think it’s funny, do yeh? What am I supposed ter do with yeh today? Lesson plan out the window!”

At this, Hermione crumbles. “We’re sorry, Hagrid. We brewed a potion to mask our scent from the unicorns. Some of us thought it would prevent them from singling out…well...those who haven’t, you know, had sex before.” At this point, Hermione’s face is crimson, but she seems determined not to shy away from the word “sex,” even if she is explaining herself to Hagrid.

“What? I told you lot two days ago that—”

“I know! I’m sorry, Hagrid. I knew it was rubbish, but we started talking about how would could mask body odour with potions, and—”

“We got carried away, Hagrid,” Ron finishes for her, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder in solidarity.

“We didn’t think,” Harry adds, because, although he’d never cared about the potion plan one way or the other, he’s not having Hermione and Ron take the heat without him. Especially when the heat comes from a disappointed Hagrid. The feeling of letting Hagrid down is nearly too much to bear.

“Well, I can see that. Or smell it, more like. But it’s no excuse.”

“We know,” Parvati says, remorsefully.

“I thought I made it clear in the first class how serious this situation is for the unicorns,” Hagrid says, sounding dejected. “If we can’t get ‘em back on track—rehabilitate ‘em, if yeh like—the Hogwarts herd will go extinct!”

“Surely not?” says Ernie, rudely. 

“But there’ve always been unicorns at Hogwarts. The founders chose this location in part to ensure the castle and grounds would be infused with the magic of its powerful flora and fauna,” Hermione adds, undoubtedly quoting her treasured copy of _Hogwarts: A History._

“Well it won’t have anymore if you lot don’t buck up your ideas,” Hagrid says, and Harry feels miserable. He somehow can’t muster much concern about the unicorns—certainly not as much as the faces of some of his classmates are showing. And he’d thought the reverse-Amortentia was stupid and pointless. But he hadn’t counted on hurting Hagrid’s feelings. The rest of the class also look guilty, regretful, and worried.

“We won’t do it again, Hagrid,” Hermione assures. “We’ll take it completely seriously from now on.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “No more mucking about.”

“Good,” Hagrid says gruffly. “You lot go back to the castle and get that stink off yeh. I expect you here bright and early for next class, ready to work. We’ve got no time to lose. We’ll meet here and head right into the Forest to get started.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Harry, blindsided, _the Forest._

***

Harry doesn’t actively have to decide, following Hagrid’s pronouncement, that he will not be attending anymore Care of Magical Creatures lessons—at least so long as they're taking place in the Forest. It’s just not happening. It doesn’t bear thinking about. So Harry is not thinking about it. He’s certainly not saying anything about it to Ron or Hermione or anyone else. 

And since formulating a plan or even thinking up an excuse would fall under the umbrella of thinking about it, when Harry awakes the morning of their next class after a weekend during which Seamus had refused to relinquish control of the gramophone despite Hermione’s and Justin’s families sending more records (“I’m not unreasonable! What’s everyone up for? _No Need to Argue_ , _I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got_ , or _Rum, Sodomy & the Lash_?”), Harry finds himself faced with a groggy but vertical Ron who wants to know why Harry isn’t out of bed yet. 

Harry tells Ron he needs a few minutes to get out of bed, that he’ll meet him in the Great Hall for a few bites of something to eat before their class. Ron, who knows no tact, but is, nonetheless, a fellow eighteen-year-old bloke, leaves Harry under his bed clothes without pushing the issue. Harry flips onto his stomach, pushes his face into the pillow, and lies there.

Harry knows for a solid gold fact that when Hermione and Ron (and the rest of the eighth-year contingent, really—Zabini, it turns out, is a nosey parker) return, they will lay into him with questions about why he wasn’t in class, why he skived off work and the chance to work in the Forest with unicorns, which, he knows, would sound pretty cool to most Hogwarts students, concerns about non-consensual virginity disclosure notwithstanding.

Foreknowledge, however, is hardly the same as preparation, so Harry finds himself floundering for an answer when the eighth-year Gryffindors corner him in the common room when they’ve all returned from dinner following their respective afternoon classes.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Harry lies, unconvincingly. 

“Really?” Hermione says, sounding skeptical. “You seem fine now.”

“Yeah, it passed.” Harry shrugs, and hopes beyond hope that Hermione will drop it.

“Did you go see Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione presses.

“No, it was nothing, really Hermione. I felt a bit funny. I’m fine now.”

“A likely story,” Zabini’s grating voice calls from near the cold stones of the fireplace. “And after making fun of Finnigan for his maidenly concerns last week, Potter. Tsk.” Zabini punctuates the noise with a preposterous wave of one index finger.

Titters of laughter sound throughout the common room.

“He’s got a point there, mate,” says Seamus.

“Seamus!” shouts Ron, clearly scandalised by the possibility of a Gryffindor-Slytherin coalition against his best mate.

“Harry did take the piss out of Seamus for worrying about the unicorns last week, to be fair,” Dean says, evenly.

“So did everybody!” Harry points out.

“And anyway,” Justin adds, clearly more interested in unicorn talk than whatever homework he and Ernie have open in front of them, “it was all a bunch of worry for nothing. Zabini was right—”

“It’s best to take that as given and save time, Finch-Fletchley,” Zabini interrupts.

Justin levels Zabini with a look Harry can’t read before continuing. “Don’t count your owlettes, Zabini. You were right that it wasn’t worth worrying over, that’s all. The rest of what you said was a lot of guff, obviously.” Justin sounds amused, not at all condemnatory.

“Yeah, the unicorns didn’t behave at all like we expected,” says Parvati. 

Harry doesn’t particularly care about the strange proclivities of unicorns, but he does care quite strongly about keeping the subject trained away from his absence, so he asks, “What do you mean, Parvati?”

“Oh, we were surprised—”

“Yeah,” Lavender interjects. “They didn’t react to us like we thought.” 

“What does that mean?” Harry presses.

“Hagrid took us into the Forest, like he said,” Neville elaborates. “We went a ways in—the destruction’s not just on the edges, you know. We walked—what do you lot reckon, a half a mile in? Anyway, there were broken trees littering the ground, stumps everywhere. Fire looks to have burned up a lot of the flora...”

“And when we got to the unicorns,” Padma picks things up, “we only saw three. Hagrid said it was a mother and her foals. Well, not foals anymore, really. They were white, too, and only a bit smaller. Born before the adult males were wiped out…”

“And unless Zabini is full of it,” Parvati says, looking pleased with herself, “they definitely don’t prefer virgins.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“At first Hagrid had us keep a respectful distance.” Hermione takes over. “We spent most of the class assessing the damage to their territory in the Forest, discussing with Hagrid the best possibilities for its rehabilitation.”

“It really is awful in there, Harry,” says Ron, and Harry silently agrees. “You won’t believe the state of it.”

“Anyway, once we’d been around for a bit, one of the younger unicorns approached Blaise. It sort of… I don’t know, sort of sized him up, and then nuzzled his arm a bit,” Hermione finishes.

“Unicorns are known to have impeccable taste,” Zabini says, with annoying earnestness.

“Can’t argue with that one, Blaise,” Lavender agrees in an inexplicable moment of camaraderie. 

“The only other person who got nuzzled was Lavender,” explains Parvati, looking at Lavender fondly.

“So?” asks Harry. “Doesn’t that just mean that Lavender’s also— er…”

“We’ve no idea,” admits Justin. “We started talking about it, but Hagrid insisted we ‘Start acting like grown witches and wizards and get back to our work.’”

“Seems more likely to me,” begins Seamus with unholy relish, “that Zabini doth protest too much about his prowess in the boudoir.”

“I don’t think so,” says Parvati. 

Lavender’s cheeks flush pink as she shares a look with Lavender, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Ooooh, Lavender.” Seamus waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Summer love?”

“That’s nobody’s business but Lavender’s,” Padma admonishes, sidelining that line of inquiry. 

“Thanks,” says Lavender, quietly.

“So what, then,” Ron ponders aloud. “They liked two people who may or may not be virgins?”

“Definitely not virgins,” Zabini appends.

“There’s no mystery here,” Hermione insists, her voice placating, resolved. “The unicorns approached two of us at random because we were interlopers in their habitat and they are being cautious. I can’t understand why you’re all determined to believe in this _mythical_ and, I hasten to add, completely unproven fiction about unicorns and ‘maidens.’” Hermione is a bit flustered, but not so much so that she fails to add, “What is a ‘maiden,’ anyway?”

Harry reckons air quotes are going to be Hermione’s trademark this year.

“That’s actually an interesting question, Hermione.” Padma looks contemplative.

“Mm. I wonder what counts,” Anthony adds.

“What I think’s an interesting question,” Zabini interjects, “is why Perfect Potter skived off a class taught by his bosom chum. And when the school needs him most! Potter, I thought saving ickle magical creatures was your wheelhouse,” he concludes in mock reprimand.

“Yeah, Potter. Why weren’t you putting your privacy on the line with the rest of us?” Malfoy questions. 

Harry wishes Malfoy’s attempt at broody silence had lasted. 

Dean, who has more tact than the rest of the lads put together, abruptly proclaims to the room at large, “Tuesdays are nothing more than second Mondays. I need music. Seamus, you used up about a month of turns last night. Hermione, Justin, did you get anything good?”

The common room quickly devolves into chaotic chatter as two debates rage at the same time; the first over whether turns picking are to be taken by person or by house; the second about whether the pure-bloods’ first Beatles album should be _Sgt Pepper’s_ or _Abbey Road_.

***

The following day, Harry attends all of his scheduled classes, which subdues Hermione’s concerned glances.

During dinner, Ginny comes over and nonchalantly insinuates herself between Harry and Ron at the eighth-year table.

“Oi!” Ron says, rubbing the ribs Ginny had none-too-gently elbowed to wedge herself in beside him.

“Toughen up the fuck up,” says Ginny unapologetically.

“What news from Gryffindor, Gin?” Neville asks from his spot next to Padma.

“Nothing earth-shattering,” Ginny replies. “The new crop of firsties are a bunch of scared mice, and the second-years are acting as if they own the place now that they’re no longer the lowest rung of the ladder. Oh! And I’m conducting Quidditch tryouts on Friday evening.”

“Still can’t believe McGonagall barred the eighth-years,” grumbles Ron, channeling his feelings of being hard done by into mangling the yoke of a perfectly fried egg.

“Yeah,” Harry commiserates. When he’d learned that he couldn’t play for Gryffindor this term, he’d felt gutted. He can still enjoy the freedom of flying on evenings when the pitch is free, of course, but losing the camaraderie of being on the house team smarts. Also, he can’t help but recall that his last year at Hogwarts without Quidditch had ended in utter catastrophe. He doesn’t want to recall all of that, though. He shoves the thought away. “We can do fantasy Quidditch, though.” He knows it won’t be the same, but if he can preserve a fraction of the feeling he gets from relishing a hard-earned win with his mates… “We can watch tryouts on Friday to scout players.”

“Wicked,” says Ron. “Padma, d’you know when Ravenclaw are holding their Quidditch tryouts?”

“Sometime this weekend, I think,” she answers. 

“What about Hufflepuff? Justin? Hannah?” Harry looks over to where they’re sat a little farther down the table than Padma, but they only shrug and promise to ask their housemates later.

“Slytherin’ve got the pitch on Sunday,” Malfoy offers. 

“I’ve been thinking about a points system for our fantasy league,” Padma says. “If we all attend the tryouts together, we can form a consensus on how many points each player is worth to keep things fair.”

“Are you copying _Which Broomstick_ ’s system, Patil?”

“Actually, no. I think the WWN’s is more elegant. It was designed for more casual fans, but that kind of makes it simpler to follow.”

“I agree.”

So much for fantasy Quidditch being fun.

***

On Wednesday morning, Harry realises that he probably ought to have prepared to face the repercussions of skiving off again.

He doesn’t have the energy to ply Ron with another feeble excuse. Instead, Harry casts an Imperturbable Charm on his curtains so that they can’t be pulled open from the outside. Then he pulls his blankets up to his chin and waits for Ron and the others to give up calling to him through the hangings that it’s nearly time for class.

Sure, they’ll demand answers. But that’s later, and Harry can’t be bothered to dwell upon it now. With the dormitory empty (the Gryffindors had been the last out of bed), he heads to the equally abandoned showers and lets the hot water pour over his head and down his torso for at least twenty-five minutes before getting dressed and making for the kitchens to see if Kreacher can supply him with some breakfast.

*** 

Harry takes a couple of sandwiches with him when he leaves the kitchens so he can avoid the lunch table. He eats them alone in the common room before Transfigurations and heads to class with no time to spare so Ron and Hermione can’t corner him before class.

When Transfigurations is through, he makes a break for the boys’ toilets. 

He knows abstractly that he can’t avoid his friends and their inevitable questions, their worried expressions, forever, yet he still feels waylaid when he goes to drop his books in his trunk and finds Hermione and Ron waiting for him in an otherwise empty dormitory.

Hermione spells the door shut behind him and begins her interrogation.

“Why are you skiving off Hagrid’s classes, Harry?”

“I’m not skiving off Hagrid’s classes,” he lies.

“And what would you call missing Care of Magical Creatures twice in a row, then?” she counters.

“I just wasn't feeling up to class this morning, Hermione.”

“Nor Monday?”

“That’s right,” Harry retorts, obstinately.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron says, voice pained. “You can tell us what’s up. Hagrid’s worried that you’re sick. We convinced him that he didn’t need to check in with McGonagall—that you’d be back when you’re feeling better—but if you’re going to keep missing his classes—”

“It’s nothing, Ron. Honestly, you two can just drop it.”

“Harry—”

“I said drop it, Hermione,” Harry repeats, voice icy and deliberate. “I mean it.”

“But Harry—”

Harry can’t have this conversation. So he turns away from his two best mates and walks out of the dormitory, out the common room, and heads for Gryffindor tower to see if Ginny’s up for a spot of flying.

***

Friday morning, Ron doesn’t bother trying to open Harry’s curtains. Harry can hear Neville’s voice, muffled by the fabric, asking after him, and Ron answering, “Not now, Neville,” before his fellow Gryffindors leave him alone in the dormitory once again.

Harry seizes the opportunity to take another marathon shower uninterrupted. 

Today is looking promising, he thinks. No one pestered him this morning and he’s got the shower to himself, plus Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts to watch this evening. Of course, Ron will be there too, and it’s too much to hope that he won’t assail Harry with his patented worried looks, but Harry knows Ron won’t press the issue in front of other people—not when Harry’s already closed the door on the subject. Ron’s good like that.

Hermione, on the other hand… Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

***

At dinner, Hermione doesn’t make a peep about Harry’s third missed lesson with the unicorns. She does, however, level Harry with a 'Don’t try to out-stubborn me' look. With the weekend on the horizon, Harry feels a twinge of worry about deflecting Hermione’s questions—she’ll have two whole, class-free days to harangue him. He pushes that to the back of his mind, though, and heads for the pitch with Ron.

***

In the Quidditch stands, he and Ron find seats in the Gryffindor section, and they’re soon joined by Padma. The three of them sit together, sharing good-natured barbs about each others’ house teams as Ginny screams herself hoarse at those trying out to “Fucking take this seriously, or you’re cut!”

Ginny’s moving on from potential Keepers to Chasers when Harry notices a blond head bobbing through the Slytherin side of the stands.

Harry reminds himself that he’s here to enjoy himself with vicarious Quidditch—the only variety available to him, thanks to McGonagall. He forces himself to look away from Malfoy, to rejoin the conversation with his mates, but he can’t help looking across the pitch every so often when the setting sun glints off Malfoy’s stupid hair.

After the tryouts, Harry makes a beeline for the dormitory, successfully avoiding Hermione.

Next morning, he manages to evade her again by skipping breakfast and heading back to the Quidditch pitch for Ravenclaw tryouts. As it turns out, Hufflepuff are conducting theirs today too. This time Harry and Ron join Padma in the Ravenclaw stands, and Harry is certainly not flustered when Malfoy arrives and sits next to Padma, who shrugs at Harry’s glare and informs him and Ron that Malfoy’d helped her work out the ranking system they’ll be using. Malfoy spends the tryouts making notes here and there in a small, embossed leather notebook, the prissiness of which does not distract Harry.

When they sit down to eat in the Great Hall following Ravenclaw’s selections, Hermione joins them at the table.

“Harry,” she says, quietly, carefully. “I know you’re planning to watch the rest of the Quidditch tryouts this afternoon. Can we talk later? Privately, you know. Just the three of us?”

“Hermione, would you drop it already?” Harry says, exasperated. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Well that’s a load of rubbish,” Ron interjects.

“Look, we can hang out in the common room, but we’re not having any ‘private’ talks, just so we’re clear. See you later, Hermione.”

And with that, Harry strolls out of the hall and and heads back for the pitch. Ron knows where he’ll be—he can catch up.

***

Just as Harry, Ron, Padma, and Malfoy—that fourth-wheel—are debating where to sit for the Hufflepuff tryouts, Ernie, Justin, and Hannah arrive to cheer on all of the hopefuls for their house team, and invite them all to join them in the Hufflepuff stands. 

Harry sits between Ron and Justin, letting Ernie and Hannah on Justin’s other side act as a sort of Hufflebuffer between he and Malfoy, whose feelings about being shut out from Quidditch Harry does not ponder.

Instead, Harry keeps up with the conversation. He learns that Ernie and Hannah are reasonably keen on Quidditch, though Justin claims he could not care less about the sport.

“I prefer rugby,” he tells Harry. “If sweaty men aren’t dog piling each other, what’s the point?”

Harry sidesteps that revealing comment, and asks Justin why he’s bothering to attend the tryouts if Quidditch isn’t his game.

“They’re my housemates.” Justin doesn’t elaborate.

When tryouts are over, their little group heads back to the castle, and all but Justin move toward the Great Hall. “I’m heading back to the common room to get dibs on the gramophone,” he says, excusing himself. “I mean, it’s cute that Zabini is so sentimental about his first Muggle album, but there’s only so much Bono any sane person can be expected to take.”

Harry has serious doubts about the sanity of anyone who’d use the word ‘cute’ to describe Blaise Zabini so he wordlessly waves Justin off.

“Who am I to pass up opportunities for entertainment?” Malfoy wonders out loud and follows Justin.

“What do you make of that?” Ron asked him.

“Hm?” Harry responded, noncommittally. 

“Don’t ‘hm’ me—you heard as well as I did: Justin obviously fancies Zabini.”

“So?”

“So?!” Ron nearly shouted, sounding disbelieving. “So I’ve never met anyone more up themself than Zabini. Justin must be cracked.”

“Oh. Well, yeah.” Harry answers. “No argument from me there.”

When Ron and Harry enter the common room a little while later, Justin is, in fact, still arguing with Zabini over the evening’s first musical selection. Zabini has forsaken Malfoy and Parkinson by the fireplace; he’s sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Justin.

“How about this, Finch-Fletchley,” Zabini proposes. “We’ll listen to One, and then you can pick another album.”

Justin smiles and selects _Purple Rain_. “You’ll like this one, Zabini—Prince is raunchy.” 

“Bad move, Finch-Fletchley,” Malfoy advises.

“Rookie mistake,” Parkinson agrees. “You can’t give Blaise an inch.”

“She’s right, Finch-Fletchley.” Zabini is leering. “l’ll take a lot more than an inch.”

“And moving right along,” Parvati says with a roll of her flamboyantly-made-up eyes, “Who made you the boss of the gramophone, anyway, Justin?” Parvati asks. “I’m quite certain it’s Gryffindor’s turn to pick, and we’re having _Placebo_.”

“Oh, are we?” Ginny asks, entering the common room followed by Luna. “Excellent!”

“But we’ve listened to that one already!” Justin complains.

“Their song about masturbation is very catchy,” Luna offers.

Neville chokes on his own saliva while the rest of the room bursts into laughter.

As Parvati sets the record to playing, Pansy, who is still loyal to her armchair by the absent fire, demands to know which song Luna means, and what makes her think it’s about wanking.

It’s all a bit surreal, by Harry’s estimation: Justin and Zabini are flirting; Luna is explaining something Harry would rather not know about the lyrics “harder, faster!”; and they’re all listening to androgynous Muggles sing about masturbation on a decrepit gramophone in their boarding school. (Okay, so that last isn’t so odd.)

Still, it’s so far from how he imagined this year would be—from how he’d wanted it to be.

***

The Tuesday after Harry skives off his fourth consecutive Care of Magical Creatures class, He receives an owl from Hagrid with the morning post. He can tell it’s from Hagrid by the rumpled parchment and the unmistakable scrawl that spells out, ‘Harry.’

He’s not expecting it. Perhaps he should be, but he’s been doing his level best not to think about anything related to Care of Magical Creatures at all—pushing any errant thoughts aside, forcing them down.

Harry doesn’t open it. There’s no point, really. No matter what Hagrid has to say to him, he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s not going to taking classes in the Forest, so why bother reading about how Hagrid is disappointed in him, how Harry’s letting down McGonagall’s trust, letting down the school (again).

Harry shoves it into his pocket. He knows Hermione and Ron saw him remove the letter from the leg of the school screech owl that’d delivered it. Neither of them looked surprised. They’re both smart enough to say nothing about it at the table, though. Perhaps they’re afraid Harry will snap at them—that he’ll bellow and caterwaul like he had so often in their fifth year. A mean part of Harry is glad they're keeping their mouths shut. He hopes they’re fretting about what he’ll do. Let them sweat a bit, especially if they’ve been discussing him with Hagrid behind his back.

***

Next day Harry, Ron, Padma, Malfoy, Ernie, and Hannah are joined by Seamus and Ginny, who think fantasy Quidditch sounds like a laugh. They’re finalising their fantasy drafts. When Ginny had seen that Padma’s arithmantic calculations ranked her top pick among Chasers, she’d looked inordinately smug.

Perhaps subconsciously unwilling to be outsmugged, Ernie asks Ginny if it’s strictly ethical for her, a team captain, to be playing with them. 

“Sure it is, Ernie,” Ginny assures. “After all, most of my draft picks are from other teams. I used up most of my points drafting myself, of course, so I had to balance myself out with the slim pickings from the other teams.”

The jab at the other teams generates a lighthearted debate about the strengths and weaknesses of each, and Harry is happy enough to find, when he lets out a huge yawn a few hours later, that he’s been able to lose himself a bit in drafting a team, in defending his picks, in mocking those of his competition. Padma excuses herself first, wanting to get a good sleep before class the next morning. Malfoy quickly follows. Seamus heads out soon after, and Ernie and Hannah follow suit, which leaves Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

Eyeing the dormitory door through which Malfoy’d just disappeared, Harry’s head whips around when he hears the door to the other dormitory close. He sees Hermione enter the common room and cast Silencing Charms on each of the two dormitory doors. 

He’s been ambushed. 

“I’m going to bed,” Harry snaps at his traitorous friends, pushing himself up from one of the mismatched wooden chairs around the rough, stained table, where only a few minutes earlier he’d been having a good time looking over Padma and Malfoy’s calculations, mocking up his own team.

“Guess again, Harry,” Ginny says firmly, pushing him back into his chair with strong arms.

“Harry, we’d really like to talk to you about this,” Hermione beseeches.

“About what, Hermione? There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Harry, you’re not fooling anyone,” says Ginny. 

“Ginny, please!” Hermione huffs. “Remember, we talked about ‘I’ statements?”

“Been talking about me, have you?” Harry says, indignantly, volume rising.

“Come off it, Harry,” Ron says. “You haven’t given us anything to talk about except that _we_ ,” he pauses, looking to Hermione, who nods in approval, “feel worried that you’re skiving off Care of Magical Creatures and not telling us why.”

“I feel,” says Ginny loftily, “that you’re acting funny since we came back here.”

“Ginny, you are not helping,” Hermione reprimands. “Harry, the way you’re skiving off classes makes me think something must be disturbing you. Something related to Care of Magical Creatures somehow. I can’t believe it’s Hagrid—”

“Of course it’s not Hagrid!” Harry shouts, defensively.

“Well, what is it then?” Ron presses.

“It’s nothing,” Harry answers, determined to stonewall the lot of them.

“Harry, stop it.” Hermione’s placid tone is slipping. “You’ve missed four classes in a row. All of the eighth-years can tell something is off. Please don’t insult our intelligence.”

“What do you mean ‘all of the eighth-years’?” Harry retorts.

“Mate, you can’t seriously think you can miss the same class four times and your classmates won’t wonder about it,” Ron reasons.

“Maybe not,” Harry says, “but I did think my best mates would do better by me than gossip with the other houses.”

“Harry, most of these people fought with us in the Battle. They heard what you said about protecting them to Voldemort. They care about you—”

“So what have I been missing that’s so important, then?” asks Harry, desperate for another subject. Any other subject.

Hermione looks conflicted between feeling pleased that Harry is willing to talk about the class and disappointed about his unwillingness to reveal his innermost feelings. She settles for following his lead for the time being.

“Well, a lot, actually,” Hermione begins tentatively.

“The three unicorns we saw during our third class are most of what’s left, Hagrid thinks. Two more have shown up—”

“Hagrid says one’s the mother of the other,” Ron adds.

“Yes.” Hermione takes over once again. “So there are two fully grown females and three younger ones that haven’t had foals of their own. Obviously we need to breed them if we want to keep them from going extinct—but you know that much from the last class you attended.”

“So Malfoy—poncey tosser—has been helping Hagrid put together a petition to the Ministry to bring in a male unicorn to Hogwarts from Wiltshire. Says there are some wild ones in the woods around the Manor.”

“Malfoy’s been talking with Hagrid?” Harry can’t believe it.

“Well,” Ron says, “I reckon he just doesn’t want to get down in the dirt with the rest of us laying fresh soil, uprooting stumps, planting saplings. Fancies himself too good for manual labour, I reckon. And he’s not alone—Zabini spends all his time brushing the unicorns’ manes with Lavender and Neville.”

“Wait a minute here,” Harry says. “You expect me to believe that Malfoy is plotting with Hagrid and Neville’s braiding unicorn hair with Zabini and Lavender?”

“Hagrid says we need to follow their lead to gain their trust, and they just prefer Blaise and Lavender and Neville right now,” Hermione explains. “Neville’d rather be replanting, of course, but as the unicorns are still skittish around the rest of us…”

“Still, they’re coming around the more time we spend in the Forest, especially the younger ones. They’ve let Hermione and me pet them once or twice,” Ron adds. “And Padma, Parvati, and Justin, I think. You’ll love this though, Harry: they avoid Malfoy like he’s got spattergroit. Won’t even go near Hagrid when they’re talking about how to bring a male unicorn to Hogwarts. Can’t blame them, of course. Who knows if they can sense virginity, but it doesn’t take magic to work out that Malfoy’s a toe rag.”

“Draco’s not a toe rag, Ron,” Hermione says. “His parents put him in a horrible position—” 

“Well,” Ginny interjects, “as interesting as it’s been getting the eighth-year gossip, when the conversation turns to assessing our classmates’ morality, I’m out. Ron, Hermione, goodnight. Harry, stop pratting about. We’re your friends. We’re not going anywhere.”

***

Harry wishes that Thursdays had Care of Magical Creatures in the morning too, because after his conversation with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny last night, he’d hardly slept. He’d love to sleep in, but he can’t afford to miss Potions—he’s still minus one annotated copy of Advanced Potion Making and he fancies a trip to the Room of Requirement only slightly less than a stroll through the Forbidden Forest.

He can’t stop thinking about Ron’s throwaway comments about Malfoy and Hagrid. In what universe does Malfoy try to help Hagrid, or endangered unicorns, or Hogwarts? Last time they were students together, Malfoy’d been hell bent on throwing Hogwarts open to the Death Eaters.

And now, what? He’s changed? Harry doesn’t know if he buys that. _He_ doesn’t feel changed, and he’d died out there, for fuck’s sake. How could a self-centred git like Malfoy have managed it?

***

Next morning—a Friday—Harry doesn’t even bother to charm his curtains shut as his dormmates leave the room. Ron seems to have accepted things as they are, at least for the moment. Harry presses his forehead against the stone wall during another long, hot shower. After toweling off, he runs his fingers through his shaggy hair to work out the biggest tangles. He hasn’t bothered combing it since Hermione’d cut it back in the tent; he keeps it short enough for that these days. Though, it’s not without its downside: the back sticks up worse than ever. Oh well.

It’s quiet in the common room when Harry passes through on the way to the kitchens. It’s becoming a thrice-weekly routine. Kreacher provides him with makeshift sandwiches comprises buttery toast and fried eggs. He wraps them up with care and sends Harry on his way. 

Harry munches on his breakfast—brunch?—in the silent common room. He could do some homework for Transfigurations or Potions or Herbology or one of his other subjects, he supposes. But he lacks the motivation to study when Hermione’s not around to keep him on task. He briefly considers writing a letter, but laughs the thought off scornfully as quickly as it’d come to mind: whom would he write? Remus and Sirirus are dead. He’s not exactly chummy with the surviving Order members, and even if he were, most of them are swamped with work at the Ministry since Thicknesse’s puppet regime fell. And, of course, Ron and Hermione are here at Hogwarts with him. It somehow doesn’t feel like it this term, though. They’re making friends with unicorns and rehabilitating the Forest and Hermione is determinedly pursuing a policy of detente with the Slytherins—with _Blaise_ and _Draco_ —Harry thinks, bitterly.

As though on cue, the eighth-years flood through the common room door, greet Harry awkwardly, and throw their outdoor cloaks over empty chairs and other surfaces before heading to the Great Hall for lunch.

“We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” Seamus is saying animatedly. “Justin, can we make one of those—whachacallits with parchment?”

“A spreadsheet,” Justin answers. “Of course! All we need is parchment, a quill, ink, and a ruler; then we just fill in the boxes we’ve made.”

Hermione rolls her eyes as she dumps her cloak on the arm of the sofa where Harry’s sat. “Morning, Harry,” she says kindly, though with an undercurrent of worry. “I’ve just been telling deaf ears that there’s no point in trying to crack the unicorn code.”

“They definitely won’t go near Malfoy and Parkinson,” Seamus elaborates, nodding to the aforementioned pair, who say nothing. 

“But they love me and Blaise and Neville,” Lavender adds.

“Everyone loves Neville,” Padma says, unapologetically. Neville goes red as a Bludger and stammers incoherently. “But they’re still pretty lukewarm on the rest of us,” Padma finishes.

“Shall we skip lunch and put this spreadsheet together then, lads and lasses?”

“Finnigan, I thought the entire point of the doomed potion you persuaded us to brew against our better judgement was to avoid all of our sexual histories becoming common knowledge,” Malfoy points out.

“Well sure, Malfoy,” Seamus answers. “But that was then. This is now. And now inquiring minds want to know. There must be some rhyme or reason to why they like some of us and not others.”

Hermione’s eye roll looks painful.

“We’ll crack on after dinner. We’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us to wheedle the truth out of everyone,” Seamus finishes with a suggestive leer.

***

And crack on they do. After dinner, Ginny and Luna accompany the eighth-years to their common room, where far too many people are crowded around the table where Justin is drawing lines on a parchment with the aid of a Muggle ruler from a geometry set that Hermione had in her trunk (“just in case”).

“Okay, so we’ve got our rows and columns,” Justin says after a few minutes, sweeping a finger above the parchment, first horizontally, then vertically. “So we can list our names here in the first row.”

“No names,” Padma instructs. “We’ll get more reliable data if it’s anonymous.” 

“How are we going to fill it out anonymously?” asks Anthony.

“Just leave it in here for a few days. Those who want to can fill it in when they’re alone,” Hermione suggests reflexively. 

“Anonymity doesn’t guarantee truthful responses, of course,” Luna says sagely. “Any subject who knows they’re under observation will alter their behaviour to some degree, whether they know it or not.”

“We’ll take our chances, Luna,” Seamus affirms.

“Okay, so we’ll just number the first column. Then the second column can be for ‘Sex,’” he pauses to write the three letters into the top box of the second column, “and the third for ‘No Sex,’” he repeats the action. “And, finally, one for ‘Unicorn Behaviour.’ People just need to fill the boxes in. Idiot proof!”

“We’ll see about that,” Malfoy says doubtfully.

Justin walks the parchment importantly across the room and uses a Sticking Charm to attach it to the noticeboard. 

“Can we get on with our weekend now?” Lavender heads over the the record collection and flips through several albums. As she selects one and places it onto the gramophone with care, she asks, “Why do we have so few women musicians, here?” 

The room fills with the melodic sounds of light percussion and ‘do do do do’s before Dolores O’Riordan starts singing nostalgically about her family.

Over the music, Luna, Dean, and Hermione vie to share their thoughts on the impact of sexism on the performing arts.

***

That afternoon, Harry leaves the eighth-year table with Ron and Hermione pleasantly well fed. Hermione is trying to convince them to join her for a rigorous bout of studying in the library, while Ron and Harry are campaigning for an afternoon off. When they pass through the doors into the Entrance Hall, however, Harry hears a gruff voice call his name and his heart sinks.

The three of them turn to see Hagrid waving at them and moving his bulk through the doors they’d just cleared.

“Ron, Hermione.” He nods to each of them in turn. “Harry.”

“Hi Hagrid,” they chorus. Ron and Hermione sound bright and, well, normal. Harry, on the other hand, can hear his own guilt and awkwardness. 

“Fancy a cuppa, Harry? Don’t mind, do yeh?” he asks Ron and Hermione.

“Course not Hagrid,” Ron affirms in an act of base teachery. “See you in the common room later, Harry.”

It had been one thing to ignore Hagrid’s note. Sure, Harry’d felt guilty about that too, but he hadn’t had to look Hagrid in the face. With Hagrid here in person, though, Harry can’t bring himself to refuse the offer of tea, so he follows Hagrid out the doors and down to his hut.

Sat at Hagrid’s table, Harry pets a drooling, lackadaisical Fang and takes in the new construction while Hagrid busies himself digging out teabags and finding an average-sized mug for Harry while the kettle comes to a boil. The hut looks almost identical to its predecessor in design. The wood, however, has a bright, warm, shiny, quality thanks to the fresh varnish. It looks nicer, for sure, but Harry thinks it’s not as comfortable, not as cosy as it used to be, with the wood worn down to the grain from the floorboards to the rafters.

“Here yeh go.” Hagrid sets a mug of tea down in front of Harry and picks up his own bucket-sized one. Mercifully, as they’ve just come from lunch, food is not forthcoming.

“So… haven’t seen yeh in class for a fortnight,” Hagrid attempts, subtly as a sack of Blast-Ended Skrewts.

“Sorry about that, Hagrid,” Harry says, looking down into this mug. 

“Been feelin’ off, have yeh?” Hagrid inquires.

“Yeah, I couldn’t make it, sorry.”

“Well, yeh’re looking hearty and hale now,” says Hagrid. “So we’ll have yeh back in class this week, eh?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell Hagrid he’s going to be there; he won’t be. He gropes around in his mind for an excuse that would be taken seriously.

“Look, Harry, the professors, we understand yeh must be knackered and… er… frazzled since the Battle, but—”

Harry can’t listen to this. He can’t sit in this hut, so close to the edge of the Forest, and hear the man who carried him out of it—presuming him dead—talk about what happened. Harry’s not even aware of getting out of his chair, of leaving Hagrid’s, but the next thing he knows he’s outside in the sunshine, heading toward the lake.

Harry can see the Forest beyond the lake like a backdrop. He sits himself down on the grass near the water’s edge and closes his eyes. His mind’s eye can still see the trees, however. Nothing but huge trunks, growing tightly together. And in the distance, a group of beckoning figures. 

Harry opens his eyes again and trains his gaze upon the still surface of the lake. His eyes are prickling and he feels like such an idiot. Some veteran. Some war hero—afraid of a few trees. He knows it’s not really the trees, of course. He thinks he should go back to Hagrid’s hut. He should apologise for fucking off apropos of nothing. He should apologise for missing classes—he knows how proud Hagrid is of his position at Hogwarts, how much it must mean to have McGonagall entrust the the rehabilitation of the grounds to him. But what can he say? “Sorry, Hagrid, I can’t attend your class because everytime I think about walking into the Forest again it feels like my lungs don’t work and my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing Sickles?”

He wishes they would all just let him be. Hasn’t he earned a bit of peace? So what if he’s skiving off Care of Magical Creatures? The rest of them are clearly enjoying their time in the Forest without him. Project Unicorn, he thinks, scornfully, is bringing them all together, exactly like McGonagall wants. So what about unicorns? Harry thinks, viciously. So their habitat has been destroyed; things get destroyed everyday. No matter what the eighth-years do, no matter what Hagrid does, the Forest will never be like it was before the Battle—before Voldemort ruined it. 

Neither will Hogwarts. 

Neither will Harry.

Harry thinks he ought to feel ashamed about being so self-indulgent. But damn it, he’s been trying so hard since he came back to Hogwarts to keep these feelings at bay, to have a normal school year. But nothing’s shaped up like it was supposed to. Things that should be fun just aren’t: he has to settle for fantasy Quidditch, and he can’t seem to care about the growing collection of long-playing records, and he’s fucking hacked off that Malfoy’s always about, distracting Harry and getting more matey with his friends each passing day. 

None of it is like it’s supposed to be. Eighth year is carrying on without him. The eighth-years are carrying on without him.

On the surface of the lake, a movement catches his eye—the reflection of a bird flying overhead. He looks up in time to see that’s it’s not a bird, but a thestral. He lets out a haggard chuckle. Thestrals suit his mood far better than unicorns ever could. 

***

It’s still light out when Harry heads back up to the common room.

Ron and Hermione greet him quietly from where they’re sitting in a loose group of eighth-years.

“Pull up some flagstone,” Ron invites.

“How was Hagrid’s?” Hermione asks.

But all Harry can do is cast them a feeble wave and keep walking. He enters the dormitory, kicks off his shoes, and crawls into bed. He’s not sure what time it is and he doesn’t care. He pulls the duvet over himself, head and all, and cries.

He feels like shit for thinking ill of Ron and Hermione, of his best friends, who’ve actually been more accommodating of his avoidance and closed-offedness than he probably deserves. His friends, who are making the most of what eighth year has thrown at them, who are trying to stop him from isolating himself…

But that’s just it, Harry realises. No one is isolating him: not Ron or Hermione or Malfoy or the stupid unicorns or even Hogwarts itself. The hardest part, he thinks, is knowing that if he truly does want to be just a student, he’s going to have to show up for it. Simply getting off the train was not, it turns out, enough.

***

To his enormous surprise, Harry wakes on Sunday morning after the best sleep he’s had since he left the Burrow. 

He didn’t dream, and feels properly rested. His mind feels clear and his body feels like it’s had a spring cleaning. He hadn’t even realised how weighed down, cloudy, and lethargic he’d been feeling.

It’s a new day. In point of fact, it’s a Sunday, and he’s going to spend it with his mates—properly spend it with his mates, that is. He’s going to pick an album. He’s going to tease Ginny for being so twitterpated. He’s not going to squander their leisure hours fixating on how everything at Hogwarts this year seems purpose-built to fuck with him. 

Yep; he’s going to spend today with his friends. Because, honestly, he feels like he’s missing out on them, like the Forest has wedged itself between them—a boundary that Harry cannot cross, beyond which his best mates are moving on and making new friends and working happily together on something they care about. Something worth doing.

And Harry is… not. 

So, okay, he can’t join them in the Forest. But that doesn’t mean he can’t do anything. Doing nothing has never been Harry’s style—he’s been a person of action (well, reaction) since he was eleven. He doesn’t have to keep doing nothing, floundering, brooding in self-exile. There must be a way to help his mates with their new pet project. After all, all they need is one male unicorn.

A wild, reckless thought suddenly occurs to him, and entertaining it feels like mainlining Felix Felicis. The thought of doing something—anything, really—fills Harry with a buzzing, titillated energy he hasn’t felt since he was deciding between Hallows and Horcruxes.

So he’ll spend today with his friends. But first, he thinks, letting his impulse to action guide him, he has to find Malfoy.

***

Harry enters the Great Hall for breakfast early, thanks to his early night. The house tables are peppered with a sparse handful of early risers, and, as luck would have it, the only people at the eighth-year table are Malfoy, Goldstein, and Hermione. Bunch of keeners.

Hermione smiles at Harry, but her warm expression quickly shifts to one of confusion when Harry mouths, “Later” and walks towards Malfoy, who’s occupying a seat a little ways down the table.

Harry questions the wisdom of what he’s about to do before dismissing his concerns in favour of gathering his admittedly finite reserves of patience and taking the seat next to Malfoy.

“How’s the petition coming along, Malfoy?” he asks in tones that suggest they always share early-morning niceties.

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy asks, clearly not buying it—and not even Harry can blame him.

“I want to know how the petition for a male unicorn from the Malfoy grounds is coming.”

Malfoy sighs philosophically and looks up from his breakfast at Harry. “It’s going nowhere, Potter. Which is hardly surprising. I’m sure Granger and Weasley and Hagrid and the rest of your Gryffindor cohorts have told you that it’s nigh impossible to procure a unicorn legally. They’re a highly protected species; their magic is spatial—it’s connected to their habitat, so—”

Harry might be trying to engage more, but that doesn’t mean he has to sweat the details. So he cuts Malfoy off, asking, “How about illegally?”

Malfoy looks at him for a moment before saying, “Whatever you’re planning, Potter, count me out. In fact, if you could please _Obliviate_ any memory of even mentioning this to me, I would be grateful.”

“Come on, Malfoy. Hermione and Ron say you’ve been spending every Care of Magical Creatures class working with Hagrid to get a male unicorn. I’m offering to help you.”

“Don’t you usually ask Weasley and Granger to act as your sidekicks for harebrained capers? If they’re busy, I’m sure Longbottom or the Juniorest Weasley would be happy to oblige.”

“The Juniorest? Who— wait, Ginny? Malfoy, what are you like? Why can’t you just call her by her name?”

“It’s not my fault there are so many Weasleys!” Draco protests. “It’s confusing!”

“She has a first name, you know.”

“What is it?”

“Ginny, as you know damn w—”

“I mean what’s her full name? What’s it short for?”

“Er—”

“Oh, Potter, don’t tell me you don’t know her full name.”

“Everyone calls her Ginny!”

“Potter, you were _courting_!”

“Let’s get back on track.” Harry tries to recall what track they had been on before Malfoy started using words like courting. Right, harebrained capers and sidekicks. “First, no—I usually beg Ron and Hermione futilely _not_ to get involved. Second, I’m asking you.”

“And why is that, Potter?”

Harry tries to keep his face neutral. He’s pretty sure if Malfoy was uninterested he’d have told him to piss off first thing. 

“Because you know the Manor grounds, I assume. And you know about unicorns.”

“I doubt I know more than you do, Potter. As our peers are so fond of mentioning, the unicorns can’t stand me.”

“Well they don’t need to for this.”

Malfoy puts his hands together and rests his forehead on the knuckles of his thumbs like he’s praying. 

Harry lets himself grin. Malfoy can’t see him from his position, and, in any event, he’s already conceded.

***

Well past midnight, when the common room has been abandoned, Harry sits on the sofa, his invisibility cloak heaped in his rucksack. 

He’s only been waiting five or ten minutes when he hears the dormitory door open. Malfoy tip toes out in stocking feet, dressed for the outdoors, carrying a pair of wellies.

“A traveling cloak, Malfoy? What are you, sixty?”

“Is this a midnight fashion lecture, Potter? I thought you were going to drag me along for your felonious hijinx.”

“Right. I’m really dragging you. That’s why you had time to dig out your geezer cloak,” Harry retorts as Malfoy sits down to pull on his boots. “Tell me honestly, though, Malfoy, do pure-bloods usually own Wellingtons?” 

“Of course we do, Potter. How else would we keep gangrene at bay while we trudge through our expansive estates during the off-season?”

Harry’s not sure, but he thinks Malfoy might be attempting friendly humour.

“Well, are you ready?”

“No,” Malfoy says. “Let’s go anyway.” 

“That’s practically my motto,” Harry mumbles, as he pulls the cloak from his rucksack. He’s looking forward to hearing Malfoy’s envious disbelief. He shakes it out and waits a moment. 

Malfoy says nothing.

“Er,” Harry begins. 

“What are you waiting for, Potter? Throw that bloody cloak over us so we can get a move on!”

“You—you know about my cloak?”

Malfoy frowns a bit and answers, “Are you kidding me? After that stunt by the Shrieking Shack in third year? Don’t think much of my intelligence, do you, Potter?”

Harry doesn’t answer that. Instead, he instructs Malfoy to duck down a bit, throws the cloak over them both, and, together, they make for the door.

*** 

Once they’re beyond the Hogwarts gates, Harry asks Malfoy, “Can you Apparate straight onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor?”

“I could, but we would probably be greeted by a full complement of Aurors before you could say Azkaban.”

“Well how were you planning to to get us there, exactly?”

“How was _I_ planning to— Potter, this was your idea!”

“Right, well, if you Apparate nearby, can we get onto the grounds near the woods without the Aurors knowing?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. The woods… Well, they aren’t technically part of the Malfoy estate.”

“I thought you said the unicorns lived on your property!”

“I said no such thing. You simply assumed that we owned all and sundry.”

“Okay, whatever. It’s better this way. Take us there.”

“You trust me to Apparate you to an unknown location?”

“Of course I don’t trust you, Malfoy. But I’m not afraid of you, either.”

Malfoy looks annoyed at that, but he puts out his bent elbow in offering and says, stiffly, “Potter, may I take your arm?”

“Malfoy, what are you on about? I just told you to Apparate us.”

“You don’t just grab someone’s arm without their consent, Potter, especially not to Apparate your former nemesis without so much as a ‘heads up.’”

“You were never my nemesis, Malfoy. Was I yours? That’s kind of sweet—”

But before Harry can finish, he feels the nauseous feeling of a hook behind his navel, and the next thing he knows the grassy hills between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade have been replaced with a copse of beech trees.

Harry’s chest tightens as he looks around—he’s surrounded and of course he is, and what the fuck kind of idiot is he that he hadn’t realised that Malfoy would take him directly into the woods?

Malfoy. He looks at Malfoy, who unlinks their arms, takes a step back, and looks around. 

Harry drops onto his arse on the ground. The noise causes Malfoy to whip around. After a moment, he seems to catch on that something’s not right. 

“Potter, are you alright?” 

Harry doesn’t answer. Because he can’t answer. Because he can’t draw breath.

“Potter? Are you breathing? Potter?” Malfoy asks, sounding concerned.

Harry tries harder to breathe, and manages to force air into his lungs. Only now he can’t seem to get it out.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice is frantic. “Potter, you need to breathe. Can you breathe? In Potter, like this?” He takes a long, audible breath through his mouth. “Then exhale.” He demonstrates.

Harry looks up at Malfoy from where he’s sat in the dirt. Malfoy stands out starkly in the darkness—glossy cloak and hair and perspiring brow shining in the light of the half-moon. Harry keeps his eyes trained on Malfoy. Malfoy, who is living. Malfoy, who survived, like, he, Harry did. Malfoy, who was not among his spectral companions when last he entered a forest.

“Fuck, Potter, you’re scaring me.” Harry can hear Malfoy, but can’t form a response. “Potter! Breathe Potter!” Malfoy continues to breathe long and loud, gesturing in and out with his arm in time.

Harry tries to listen. He manages to gulp some more air in, which only makes his already full lungs protest more. 

“Exhale, Potter! Do you hear me! Exhale, you arsehole! Fuck! I am so fucked!” Malfoy screams. “The Aurors are going to have me for this. Nevermind sneaking away from Hogwarts in the dead of night. They’re going to think I lured you here, or assaulted you. Fuck—”

Suddenly, Harry’s lungs manage to push out in a stilted, unsatisfying breath. It’s loud and rasping and breaks Malfoy’s concentration. He stops mid-rant and drops to his knees in front of Harry.

“Yes! That’s right, Potter! Now another breath in. Remember breathing? Potter? Come on!”

Harry manages to inhale again.

“Now exhale.”

He does.

“Inhale.”

He manages it.

“Exhale.” Malfoy keeps issuing rudimentary breathing instructions, for what seems like an eternity, and Harry sits there, following them. 

Once breathing starts to come normally again, Harry stands up. His head feels light and he’s shaking a bit. He looks away from Malfoy and tries to compose himself.

“What the fuck was that about, Potter?” Malfoy demands, sounding shaken.

“I—”

“Spit it out!”

“I… I think that was a panic attack.”

“What the fuck is a panic attack?”

“I don’t actually know... But I think that was one.”

“Well, is it over? Are you well enough to Apparate back to Hogwarts, or shall I Side-Along you again?”

“Come off it, Malfoy. We didn’t come out here just to leave because of a— a funny turn.”

“Funny turn!” Malfoy huffs, indignant.

“Malfoy, drop it. Where can we find some unicorns around here?”

“I don’t know, Potter—it’s a large wood. They’re wild unicorns. I forgot to write down their fixed address.”

“Well, how do you find them during Care of Magical Creatures?”

“Hagrid knows their favourite spots. We head in and wait for them to come around.”

“Well, let’s start looking, then.”

“Potter, have you not been listening to common room gossip? They run in the other direction whenever I come around.”

“We don’t need to get close.”

“Well then, by all means lead the way.”

They wander around for a few hours fruitless hours, encountering only the odd owl and fox.

“This is a waste of time,” Malfoy gripes.

“There must be some way. What about _Homenum Revelio _?”__

__“That’s for humans, Potter.”_ _

__“Well, can’t it be altered? You’re supposed to good at tinkering with things, aren’t you?”_ _

__Malfoy doesn’t answer. They take a few more aimless steps in silence, but then Malfoy raises his wand, screws up his face in concentration and states clearly: “Unicornus Revelio!”_ _

__For a few moments, nothing happens, but then a gentle blue light appears, and seems to beckon them onward._ _

__“That way, Potter. And be quiet about it.”_ _

__They follow the light as it leads them, Harry sincerely hopes, towards a unicorn. As they walk on in silence, panic continues to nibble at the edges of Harry’s psyche. He keeps focusing on the empty spaces between the trees, positively cavernous compared to the density of the Forbidden Forest, through which Harry’d had to contort his body to fit between yews and pines and oaks as he’d walked. Nope. He’s not going to think about that. He brings his mind back to the wide gaps between the beeches. Harry is about to ask Malfoy if he can adjust the Revelio Charm to specify the sex of the animal when he catches a glimpse of a silver tail swishing in the distance. He turns to whisper to Malfoy, but he’s already seen it too._ _

__He levels Harry with contemptuous look, whispers, “I’m a Seeker too, egoist,” and heads off towards the unicorn, careful to step softly._ _

__As they get closer, Harry can see it better, and thinks it must be fully grown: it’s tall and pure white. It’s beautiful, ethereal looking among the beech trees. Its hoofs land gently on the soft earth with each step._ _

__“Is it male?” he asks Malfoy under his breath._ _

__“Yes,” Malfoy whispers in response._ _

__“How can you be sure?”_ _

__“They’re wild Potter, they’ve not been gelded.”_ _

__“What?” Harry says, not following._ _

__“It’s still got its testicles, Potter. Honestly.”_ _

__“Okay, so what do we do?”_ _

__“What do you mean what do we do? It’s your unicorn heist! I’m just the fool accomplice!”_ _

__“You’ve spent the last fortnight with them. How do we… you know… capture it?” Harry asks, feeling like that sounds a lot harsher than he’s imagined._ _

__“Potter, Hagrid is teaching us how to gain their trust and care for them, not terrorise them!”_ _

__This is going nowhere, so Harry raises his wand to Stun it._ _

__“Potter! What are you doing?”_ _

__“Stunning it?”_ _

__“Potter, these are highly sensitive sentient creatures!”_ _

__“Well, how did you think we were going to bring one back to Hogwarts?”_ _

__“I thought you’d, I don’t know, charm it with your Gryffindor purity.”_ _

__Harry scoffs at that. “Right, because Zabini is a model of purity—I thought all that virginity stuff was bogus?”_ _

__“Yeah… I haven’t riddled that one out yet.”_ _

__“So what are we going to do? It’s obviously evading us. It’s not going to come with us of its own volition.”_ _

__“Explain to me how Saint Potter, saviour of magical people and friend of house-elves, repels unicorns?”_ _

__“I reckon they’re just finicky blighters.”_ _

__“Let’s just get back to Hogwarts before someone realises we’re gone and McGonagall raises the hue and cry. If anyone at the Ministry gets wind that I was sneaking around out here trying to poach a unicorn—”_ _

__“We weren't going to hurt it! And anyway, I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d take the blame,” Harry rebuts offhandedly._ _

__“How gallant.”_ _

__Harry shrugs that off. “It was my idea.” Harry holds out a crooked elbow to Malfoy and asks, “May I?”_ _

__Malfoy rolls his eyes and takes Harry’s arm._ _

__***_ _

__It’s still dark when Harry and Malfoy make their way back across the Hogwarts grounds. As they approach the doors, to Harry’s horror he can see McGonagall’s form in the doorway._ _

__“I know you’re out here under your cloak, Mr Potter, and I presume Mr Malfoy is with you,” she calls out in a quiet but clear voice, careful not to rouse the rest of the students._ _

__“You’re both of age and it is a weekend, so I don’t want to know. I want you to get in bed now. If you leave the grounds again without doing me the courtesy of alerting me, you shall be expelled.”_ _

__Without waiting for a response, McGonagall reenters the castle and leaves the doors open behind her. When Harry and Malfoy are inside the Entrance Hall, the doors snap shut behind them like a reprimand._ _

__“Well,” says Harry, breaking the silence when they arrive in the common room. “I guess we still have a unicorn problem.”_ _

__“What do you mean ‘we’? You haven’t shown any interest in the unicorns until today.”_ _

__“Oh, like you’re really concerned about them going extinct.”_ _

__Malfoy shrugs. “Seriously, though. Why the sudden interest, Potter? I think you owe me one after getting me busted by McGonagall.”_ _

__“I just needed to do something,” Harry replies before he can think better of it. “What about you? Why have you been helping Hagrid? Why did you take me to Wiltshire?”_ _

__“I wanted to do something—" he pauses and lets out a derisive snort, “I _want_ to do something at Hogwarts that doesn’t make me feel sick when I think about it.” _ _

__And with that, Malfoy shrugs and walks off towards the common room._ _

__***_ _

__“You did WHAT?”_ _

__Harry, barely awake after a fitful sleep during which he’d dreamed of thick, imposing trees closing in upon him as various loved ones assured him they’d stay with him until he was crushed, had not had the mental composure to formulate a lie for where’d he’d been in the middle of the night._ _

__Ron had already given Harry a blow-by-blow of what had unfolded in his absence. Neville, on a late-night visit to the loo, had noticed that the hangings around Harry’s bed were drawn, and the bed itself was unoccupied. Concerned, he’d woken Ron, who’d woken Hermione, who’d immediately woken the whole dormitory by searching for the Maurader’s Map. When she’d been unable to locate Harry and Malfoy anywhere on the grounds, she and Ron had argued about whether the best mately thing to do was cover for Harry or go to McGonagall. The headmistress had been notified._ _

__“Can you save it, Hermione?” Harry begged. “Look, I’m fine, aren’t I? And Malfoy’s fine too.” Harry pointed, rudely, to where Malfoy is sitting with Pansy by the cold fireplace. The bags under Malfoy’s eyes and the grim expression on his face, coupled with the way Pansy gesticulates accusingly, suggest to Harry that he’s not the only one being read the riot act. For a moment, he shares a sense of solidarity with Malfoy, before deciding instead that he should feel pleased he’s not the only one being told off by his best mates/self-appointed parents first thing on a Monday morning._ _

__“Fine?!” Hermione scoffs. “You told no one where’d you’d gone! You could have been hurt!”_ _

__“But as I wasn’t—”_ _

__“How could you let Malfoy Apparate you to the middle of the woods? Anything could have happened!” Hermione sounds frantic, even though the whole thing has passed._ _

__“Back to ‘Malfoy’ now, is he?” Harry is desperate to lighten things up. “I thought you wanted us all to be pals.”_ _

__“I want us all to be friendly—collegial. Not for you to run off to the woods at night without a word—”_ _

__“Okay, Hermione.” Ron places a placating hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got to head to class. He’s okay. Malfoy’s okay. We can talk about this later when we’re all cooled off and Harry’s not dead on his feet.”_ _

__Harry gives Ron a look that he hopes communicates his profound gratitude._ _

__Ron looks straight back at him and says, “You should get some more sleep. We can talk later.”_ _

__Harry just nods. “Later” is vague enough for him._ _

__As Ron and Hermione, and eventually Parkinson and an exhausted-looking Malfoy trickle out of the common room and down to breakfast among the rest of the eighth-years, Harry heads back to bed. He thinks it’s a little unfair that Malfoy, presumably feeling as shit as Harry does, has to head to class._ _

__***_ _

__Without Hermione’s indignation flooding Harry with defensiveness, an odd contradictory feeling that is at once wrung out and wired settles over Harry as the events of the previous night settle in his mind and refuse to be dislodged. On the one hand, his… whatever in the woods has left him feeling ragged and embarrassed. On the other, his failure to achieve his goal—coming back empty handed—was so anticlimactic that he somehow can’t help but wish they he had failed more miserably, more dramatically, just so that there’d at least be a sense of resolution._ _

__Harry is sat in the common room, staring at the sandwiches Kreacher had wrapped and wishing it were possible to buy a body and a brain that felt right, when the eighth-years return from class with Hagrid. They’re chatting excitedly as they relieve themselves of their bags and plop into seats for a few quiet moments off their feet before heading to the Great Hall._ _

__“How long d’you reckon it’ll take to hear back?” Lavender is asking._ _

__“Hard to say,” comes Malfoy’s reply. “We’ve put together the best petition we can, and they could deny it outright. If that happens we should know within a fortnight, I’d guess. If it does get forwarded, it has several stages, and your guess is as good as mine how long that might take.”_ _

__“I thought we’d be breeding unicorns by now.” Parvati sounds dejected._ _

__“It’s not all bad, though.” Padma’s voice is optimistic. “Mating season doesn’t even begin until May, so we have time.”_ _

__“True,” Hermione agrees. “But we need as much time as possible to get the female unicorns accustomed to the male. Unicorn magic is spatial—Hogwarts magic may not be especially compatible with the natural magical resonance of Wiltshire. It may take time to get them to resonate with one another, if it all.”_ _

__“There are a lot of variables,” Malfoy says. “For now, we have to wait.”_ _

__“And keep working on restoring the Forest,” Neville adds. “Hagrid says that if their habitat is in ruin, they won’t mate. And the damage to the flora is still pretty bad…”_ _

__Listening to the hopelessness of it all, Harry regrets not Stunning the unicorn in the woods last night. If he hadn’t wimped out, Hogwarts would have a male unicorn on the grounds this morning. He could have fixed this, if he hadn’t lost his nerve—if Malfoy hadn’t intervened. Did he fancy himself some kind of unicorn safety officer now?_ _

__“I’m for lunch,” Ron announces, offering Hermione his hand in invitation. She takes it and asks, “Coming, Harry?”_ _

__Harry’s unfulfilled impulse takes over. “I’ll be down in a minute. I have to get my books.”_ _

__Harry rushes to the dormitory and nabs his books as quickly as he can, returning to the common room to linger as the eighth-years head for lunch a few at a time. As Malfoy and Parkinson make their way to the door, Harry calls Malfoy’s name. Malfoy turns back, and takes a couple of steps back toward Harry. Parkinson waits for him, leaning on the lintel looking bored and impatient._ _

__“Yes, Potter?”_ _

__“I’m— er— sorry. About last night.”_ _

__“Don’t beat yourself up, Potter,” Malfoy says soberly. “It’s like we were saying. Unicorn magic is attached to their environment. There’s every chance that a unicorn brought here would never resonate with Hogwarts magic, especially if it was brought under… frightening circumstances.”_ _

__“I just thought I could fix this,” Harry admits, “thought if you took me there…”_ _

__“Draco?” Pansy calls “I don’t want to miss lunch.”_ _

__“If there’s nothing else, Potter—”_ _

__“There is,” Harry cuts him off. “The petition you’re sending to the Ministry… Do you think my signature on it would mean anything?”_ _

__Malfoy looks downright startled. “I think it’ll carry a hell of a lot more weight than mine or Hagrid’s. I know the kinds of people who push parchment at the Ministry… But Potter, with your all your moping about the last weeks, here I was starting to buy your line about not wanting all your fame.” His smirk is paired with a raised eyebrow, but his tone is not unkind._ _

__“I don’t want it. I hate it. The last thing I want is some bullshit spread in the _Prophet_ about how I’m a unicorn philanthropist. You know better than I do I know nothing about them.” Harry sighs. “But the offer stands, if you think it’ll help.”_ _

__“I do.” Malfoy nods at Harry and turns to follow Parkinson out of the room. Once she’s out of sight, Malfoy casts him a glance over his shoulder and says, “Thanks, Potter.”_ _

__***_ _

__For the rest of the week things keep on much as they have been for Harry. He attends most of his classes, skives off all those in the Forest, guiltily avoids Hagrid’s eye in the Great Hall during mealtimes, and pretty much waits for the McGonagall axe to fall. He’s not an idiot. He knows that at some point, sooner or later, Hagrid or Hermione or someone else will tell McGonagall that hasn’t attended his only mandatory class in weeks. And even if no one snitches on him, she’ll find out._ _

__As he can’t think of any solution, he tries his best not to think about it at all. Instead, he attempts to get as much as he can out of the classes he is attending. He wants to get into the Auror programme—he doesn’t know what else to do once he’s clear of school—and he needs every one of his N.E.W.T.s._ _

__In the evenings, he does his best to enjoy himself in the common room with Ron and Hermione and the other eighth-years, who are growing into a more cohesive unit every day, it seems._ _

__On Friday evening, once the day’s classes are behind them, Seamus calls them to attention, waving a parchment in one hand._ _

__Harry’d completely forgotten about the spreadsheet. When Justin had posted it, Harry hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a unicorn since fifth year. If the one he and Malfoy had tailed in the woods had been any indication, the animals didn’t want anything to do with him._ _

__Seamus struts over to where Justin and Blaise are picking through the communal record collection and debating the merits of Prince’s ensembles on the covers of Dirty Mind versus Purple Rain (Zabini—pure-blood to the end, is championing the elegance of the purple suit, while Justin, the hornswaggler, advocates Prince in women’s underwear). Seamus thrusts the paper into Justin’s personal space, obscuring Prince’s coy face from view. “Well?” he asks._ _

__“Let’s see, then.” Justin says. Scanning the parchment, Justin looks surprised. “Hm. Interesting.”_ _

__“What’s interesting?” asks Anthony._ _

__“Is there a discernible pattern?” Padma inquires._ _

__“People’ve altered the sheet—added to it.”_ _

__“How do you mean?” Seamus looks perplexed._ _

__Justin begins to read with a chuckle, “‘Hand job.’ ‘Fingering.’ ‘Oral.’ ‘Frottage.’ ‘Scissoring.’”_ _

__Ginny laughs self-satisfiedly. Several people join in her laughter, while Ron looks confused and asks, “What’s scissoring?”_ _

__“The options were too limited before,” Luna offers. “‘Sex’ and ‘No Sex’ is ambiguous. It lacked nuance.”_ _

__“Any other ‘nuances,’ Justin?” Seamus asks, grinning._ _

__“Oh.” Justin’s face is suddenly sombre. “Just, um… ‘Unwanted Contact.’”_ _

__The laughter and levity disappear in an instant. Before he can stop himself, try to be casual and nonchalant about it, Harry looks around the room, at the various faces—of his friends and his classmates and his former rivals. It’s as though he’s searching out clues or signals that one of them has been… what, exactly? ‘Unwanted contact’ could be anything… As his gaze turns to Malfoy, they meet eyes and Malfoy quickly straightens his posture and attempts to look unruffled. He fails._ _

__“Well, er,” Padma tries. “Are there any clear correlations between sex acts and unicorn behaviour?”_ _

__“Not that I can see.” He hands Padma the parchment, and every Ravenclaw in the room, plus Hermione and Malfoy, flock to read over her shoulder—clearly unable the resist the lure of raw data._ _

__As they read whatever else is written on the sheet, Hermione adopts a self-satisfied look. Malfoy looks confused._ _

__“Well, honestly, I told you all it was nonsense, and here’s hard proof.” If Hermione is trying not to sound smug, she’s failing. “Virginity doesn’t exist, ergo unicorns cannot detect it and their reactions to different people have nothing to do with chastity.” She infuses the last word with as much scorn as she can muster._ _

__Justin and the others concede the point. Though Anthony sees fit to critique the methodological rigour of the data collection. “If we can believe what people wrote here, though, then no one who filled the sheet in could strictly be considered a virgin. So we don’t really have a constant to compare things with.”_ _

__“Well now we all know why you’re not in Ravenclaw, Finch-Fletchley,” Malfoy says. “How could you forget the purity control?”_ _

__Everyone laughs, and the mood in the room lightens again._ _

__“What a lot of fuss over nothing.” Seamus sounds dejected, as though finding out Christmas has been canceled._ _

__“Not nothing, Finnigan,” Zabini counters. “It was highly amusing to watch you try to conceal your maiden virtue.”_ _

__***_ _

__“Sure you won’t come along?” Dean asks Harry, Ron, and Hermione._ _

__Justin and Zabini got permission from McGonagall to spend Sunday away from Hogwarts. They’re going to see a film, joined by Neville and Padma, Seamus and Dean, and Parvati and Lavender._ _

__“Thank you, Dean,” Hermione says. “But I really have to work on my Arithmancy essay.”_ _

__“What about you? Ron? Harry?”_ _

__“I’d love to!” Ron sounds enthusiastic, but quickly cowers under a look from Hermione. “Stay with Hermione,” Ron amends. “To finish my overdue homework.”_ _

__“Everyone’s welcome,” Justin adds._ _

__“Don’t exaggerate, Justin,” Zabini corrects._ _

__Justin ignores him._ _

__“Thanks Justin,” Harry says. “But I don’t want to be a—, er—” Harry does a quick headcount, “ninth wheel.” It’s true enough, but Harry also doesn’t want to be outnumbered almost three-to-one by pure-bloods seeing a motion picture for the first time. Perhaps if the group were smaller. Perhaps if it were just one pure-blood._ _

__“Have it your way,” Seamus says, and the motley crew heads out._ _

__When they leave, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are left in the common room with Anthony and Ernie, who’re studying at the common table, textbooks, ink, and parchment spread out in front of them._ _

__Malfoy and Parkinson haven’t been around this morning._ _

__“Shall we crack on?” Hermione sounds bright. “Why don’t you start on your Charms essay, Harry? Ron, I know you’ve got outstanding work for Potions. I can work on Arithmancy and then look over your drafts before dinner.”_ _

__Harry doesn’t especially want to work, but just for a moment it feels like old times—no Malfoy or Parkinson here; a fire is crackling merrily in the fireplace, warming the common room; Hermione trying her level best to get Harry and Ron as excited about homework and organisation as she is…_ _

__They work throughout the morning and into the afternoon, breaking only to pop into the Great Hall for lunch. As the afternoon sunlight fades, so does Harry’s ability to stay focussed on his essay. It’s just as well; he’s got his essay in good enough shape for Hermione to look over, at least._ _

__By the time the other eighth-years return from their day out, Harry is being soundly trounced by Ron at magical chess while Hermione reads over their work._ _

__“Well, mates,” Seamus announces loudly. “You missed out on a hell of a scene, but all is not lost.” He gestures to Justin, who waves a large, square plastic bag which reads: ‘Virgin Records’ in stylised script._ _

__“Don’t sugar coat it, Finnigan.” Zabini looks at the five eighth-years who stayed behind as though he’d about to give them a fatal prognosis. “They missed out on the coolest fucking thing ever. They need to live with that.”_ _

__“What’re you on about, Zabini?” Ron asks._ _

__“BLADE!” Zabini shouts his reply, and several people jump in surprise._ _

__“What?” Harry asks._ _

__“Blade! He’s only a badass American vampire slayer! I swear, you don’t know what you’re missing.”_ _

__“Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione reminds Zabini. “We’ve seen loads of films before.”_ _

__“You’ve not seen Wesley Snipes fight vampires in leather.” Harry doesn’t know who Wesley Snipes is, and he can’t believe Zabini is endorsing Muggle popular cultures._ _

__“It was cool,” Neville agrees. “I mean, the movie, not the leather. Not that the leather was not cool?”_ _

__“Quit while you’re ahead, Nev.” Padma gives him a fond peck on the cheek._ _

__“The music was really good too,” Dean says. “Pretty different from most of our albums. Electronic,” he adds, in explanation. “We wanted to get the soundtrack so that you could hear it, and so that our collection wouldn’t be so fucking white, actually. But they’ve only released it on CD.”_ _

__“So what did you get?” Ernie asks Justin, pointing to the bag in his hand._ _

__Justin takes a seat on the floor near the gramophone. He pulls several stacked LPs out of the bag and places them in his lap before reaching up for Zabini’s hand and pulling him down to join him on the floor. Justin grabs the album on top and holds it up like a primary school teacher showing off an illustration in a book to their students. “The Prodigy,” he says, before handing the record to Zabini, who starts attempting to work off the plastic wrapping. “ _Thriller_ —had to have that for Halloween next month…”_ _

__“Too slow,” Lavender states, snatching the rest of albums from Justin and taking over. “Parvati and I picked the rest. We flipped through some Muggle magazines in the store. This one, _Rolling Stone_ , was talking about women musicians stateside. So we asked one of the shop assistants, and got these. L7, Bikini Kill, and Hole.”_ _

____

“There was a really gross story about one of the women from L7 in the article.” Parvati looks admiring, like this is an endorsement rather than a condemnation.

Zabini manages to get the plastic wrap off of _Fat of the Land_ and puts it on. A harsh, twangy note sounds a few times, and as other electronic sounds join it one by one, the music grows. A bunch of them begin dancing where they’re sitting. Lavender and Parvati get on their feet. After about a minute, a slightly distorted voice says: “change my picture, smack my bitch up.”

“These are your enlightened music selections, are they?” Hermione asks Dean, looking affronted.

Dean looks sheepish, but says, “Sorry. But no band is perfect, Hermione. Except Rage Against the Machine, obviously.”

The group keeps the music playing throughout the evening. Eventually they are joined by Luna and Ginny, who insist on playing _Rebel Girl_ four times before they can finish the album.

When things are dying down a bit, Malfoy and Parkinson make their first appearance of the day. Parkinson spells the fire away as if by reflex as they head towards Zabini to ask him about the Muggle cinema. Harry almost feels for them as Zabini delivers a blow-by-blow account of the plot of _Blade_ , complete with impressions in an American accent, and a discursus on the merits of vampire hunting as a cool, lone-wolf career option, while Justin looks on, endeared.

From the snippets he catches, Harry has to admit that movie does sound pretty cool—action packed. He wonders if he’d like it. Wonders if Malfoy would like it. Wonders if Malfoy would ever go to a cinema. He finds himself snorting at an image of Malfoy demanding butter layered half way through _and_ on top of his popcorn and staving off overzealous attempts to upsize his drink order.

“Wonder where Malfoy and Parkinson have been all day,” Harry thinks aloud.

Hermione throws him quizzical look at the outburst.

“They were visiting their fathers,” Hermione answers, to Harry’s surprise. 

“What, like, in Azkaban?”

“Mm.” Hermione makes an affirmative noise. “Malfoy asked me if I thought McGonagall would help them arrange it. Apparently supervised visits are allowed now, with the Ministry trying to reform the prison. And about time, too. The way the magical justice system works… Honestly! Trials and sentencing are practically oligarchical.”

Harry doesn’t pay attention to the rest of Hermione’s thoughts on criminal reforms. Instead he considers what memories flood Malfoy’s mind when he is faced with Dementors—the bathroom in sixth year? The desperation of not being able to fix the Vanishing Cabinet? Being forced to torture others under threat of retribution against his family? Harry wants to know if Malfoy ever learned cast a Patronus. And, if he did, what animal his psyche calls upon to protect him.

***

On Friday the following week, Professor Sinistra stops by the eighth-year table at lunch to tell Harry that McGonagall wants to see him when classes are through. “Malfoy,” she calls, “that goes for you, too.”

Malfoy and Harry share a confused look. Harry has no idea why McGonagall would summon them both to her office. She can’t have decided to punish them for taking off after a fortnight has passed, can she?

Harry shrugs at Malfoy and mouths, “No idea” across the table.

Malfoy casts his eyes skyward and draws a breath in before mouthing back, “Wait and see.”

***

After dinner, Harry heads to McGonagall’s office alone. When he arrives in front of the gargoyle, Malfoy is already there. 

“Don’t suppose you know the password?”

Harry thinks about the last password he used to get in the office. He can’t imagine McGonagall changed it.

“Dumbledore,” he states.

The gargoyle steps aside and Harry and Malfoy step onto the spiral staircase in turn.

Harry knocks on the familiar office door and pushes it open as McGonagall beckons them. “Come in.”

They enter the room, and Harry sees Hagrid is there, seated in a large chair that Harry can only assume is magically reinforced.

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall greets them from her own seat behind her desk. “Thank you for coming.”

Harry can’t work out what’s going on here. If McGonagall’s decided to punish him and Malfoy, what’s Hagrid got to do with it? He’s suddenly struck with panic that they’ll be given extra Care of Magical Creatures duties in the Forest as detentions.

“I’ve asked you here because I have received an owl from the Ministry in response to your petition for a unicorn. I know that you worked with Professor Hagrid on this, Mr Malfoy. And you, Potter, are named in the reply. I thought the two of you thus deserved to see it first.”

McGonagall hands the letter to Malfoy. He accepts it and reads over it quickly, then offers it to Harry without a word. He doesn’t look celebratory.

> Dear Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Hagrid,
> 
> The Department for the Regulation and Control was pleased to receive your petition to move a magical creature (species: unicorn) from Wiltshire to Hogwarts. The petition was duly considered, and the situation presented therein was not taken lightly. While we understand that the Death Eater occupation has left Hogwarts without any male unicorns, we must regretfully decline your request. As you will be aware, unicorns are intimately connected to their habitats, and we cannot move one considering the odds of it mating at all and producing offspring would be remote.
> 
> We thank you for your commitment to keeping the Hogwarts traditions alive. And we wish to state explicitly that this decision should not be read as a lack of respect for signatories, including the aforementioned Professors and Harry Potter, who fought in defence of magical Britain last May. Unfortunately, we cannot alter the bio-magical facts of the situation.
> 
> With best wishes for the rest of your efforts at Hogwarts,  
>  Margie Smythe  
>  Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

  
Harry crumples the letter in his fist without even realising it. He feels oddly disembodied for he’s not sure how long. He can hear McGonagall thanking Malfoy and Hagrid for their efforts, encouraging the rest of the rehabilitation efforts, and dismissing them. Harry moves to follow them out of the room, but McGonagall calls him back.

“A moment, if you please, Mr Potter.”

Harry stops and looks at her. “Have a seat, Potter.” She gestures to a robust wooden chair before her desk. 

Harry takes the proffered seat.

“Mr Potter, we are now into October, and you have not attended a Care of Magical Creatures lesson in a month.” She doesn’t sound accusatory, she doesn’t even sound angry. She sounds like she’s stating a simple fact for him to consider.

Harry’s dander is instantly raised nonetheless. He looks to the door through which Hagrid passed less than a minute ago, scowling.

McGonagall seems to read his mind. “Harry,” she tries, gently, “Hagrid has been concerned about you for some time. You cannot honestly think that a Hogwarts professor who values his post—and who cares about you—like Hagrid does would fail to tell me that you have not been attending class.”

“Why are you just bringing this up now, then?” Harry spits out pugnaciously. He doesn’t feel disembodied now. Now his whole body feels hot and uncomfortable, as though he can physically feel his rage.

“Hagrid wished to intervene earlier,” is her reply. “I, however, thought it best to give you some time. I have not forgotten what you went through last year—the sacrifices you made in the fight against Voldemort. Hogwarts has not forgotten—”

“Come off it!” Harry retorts. He can’t help himself. He can’t be civil. His intellect is telling him that this woman in front of him defended him, that she put her life and the lives of others on the line for him, but his emotions are telling him that she’s feeding him meaningless platitudes. “Hogwarts hasn’t forgotten” indeed. All Hogwarts has done for him this year is made him feel like he doesn’t belong. Like there’s nothing for him to do here if he’s not saving someone, or something.

“Harry, please calm down. I only wish to discuss why you have not been attending classes. I know you and Hagrid have always shared a— a bond. You can understand my surprise that of all your classes, it’s Hagrid's you’ve been missing.”

“It’s nothing to do with Hagrid,” Harry says, because even though he’s mad as hell, he can’t bear the idea of anyone assuming he thinks ill of the man who saved him from the Dursleys. “It’s like I told Ron and Hermione—”

“You have discussed this with Mr Weasley and Ms Granger?” McGonagall asks. “I am glad to hear—”

“No, I haven’t,” Harry snaps. “I don’t want to ‘discuss’ this with anyone. Why can’t everyone just keep their nose out?”

“Harry.” Hearing McGonagall say his name in an attempt to calm him down only makes Harry more agitated. “As your headmistress, and, if I may be so bold, as someone who cares for you, I cannot ignore it when you are clearly distressed.”

“I’M NOT DISTRESSED!” Harry bellows, jumping up to his feet. “I just want to be let alone to finish the year and you and Ron and Hermione and Hagrid won’t stop harping on me—what difference does it make if I miss class? The stupid Ministry isn’t going to give us a unicorn anyway!”

“I fail to see what unicorns have to do with—”

Harry doesn’t hear the rest of what McGonagall has to say. He turns away from her, and runs out of the office and out of the castle.

Out on the grounds, Harry keeps running. He runs until his lungs are screaming in pain and his throat is ragged with pulling in sharp breaths. He runs until he cannot ignore the stitch in his side any longer and he collapses on his hands and knees on the soft grass. 

Harry pants like that for a few minutes. When his breath evens out, he lifts his head he sees looming oak and pine trees. Harry pushes himself up and walks towards them. He pauses for a moment, on the edge of the Forest, but his body is still coursing with unspent adrenaline and he feels fifteen again, compelled to do something rash and dangerous—something that would really stick it to all these people trying to mollycoddle him. 

He realises he’s still clutching the letter from the Ministry, and his blood pressure rises again. He throws the letter to the ground and stomps on it, grinding it into the grass with his heel. It doesn’t stop the empty words from echoing in his mind, though. _This decision should not be read as a lack of respect_. They’re joined by McGonagall’s platitudes. _Hogwarts has not forgotten._

None of these people give a shit about him. They were content to take and take and take from him during the war, and before, whenever he was useful, whenever they needed someone to risk their neck. And now? Now they can’t even get off his case for skiving off a few classes or requisitioning one measly fucking unicorn. Everyone wants to keep taking from him, wants him to fix the Forest, to care about it… 

This stupid, fucking Forest. He steps forward. Nothing happens. He takes another step, and then another, and keeps walking. He walks past pine trees that have been broken in half, past large patches of ground where nothing grows, but grey ash covers the Forest floor. He walks past dead looking oaks and yews and beeches that must have been hit by Killing Curses during the Battle. It doesn’t look like he remembers. It looks wrecked beyond all hope of recovery. He looks around and laughs hysterically. It looks nothing like the Forest he’s been dreading. So much damage has been done that there are huge clearings between trees—dense copses no longer feeling imposing and intimidating. And anyway, he’s alone in here now. His loved ones aren’t beckoning him towards anything. Voldemort isn’t waiting for him.

The crack of a snapping twig sounds loud as thunder around him, and Harry looks around wildly, his heart thundering in his chest. His breathing shallows and he berates himself. What had he been thinking, coming back here? He’d been right to stay away. He must have been out of his mind coming in here.

“Potter?” 

Harry sags in relief.

Malfoy walks toward him. “Potter, what are you doing here?”

“How’d you even know I was here, Malfoy? Following me, now?”

“I was waiting outside McGonagall’s office—”

“Eavesdropping, were you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t have.” Harry can’t honestly contest that point. Much as he cherishes his own privacy, he’s never been one to respect the privacy of others much.

“I know it’s shitty the Ministry denied our request, but—”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Harry lies. 

“Right. That’s why you ran out of McGonagall’s office like a lethifold was after you straight into the Forest you’ve been avoiding all term.” 

“Just keep your nose out, Malfoy.”

But Malfoy does not. “What is it about the woods, Potter? Why did you have—whatever you called it—an attack before?”

“Why won’t _you_ be in a room with a fire burning?” Harry counters. 

“Come on, Potter. Even I don’t believe you’re that thick.”

“Then don’t you play dumb either,” Harry accuses. “Your mother must have told you what happened in here.”

“My mother does not tell tales, Potter.”

Harry’s surprised at that. Is it possible that Narcissa Malfoy had not told her son that Harry had been hit by the Killing Curse in front of her? That he’d cheated Avada Kedavra for the second time? That she’d risked everything to lie for Harry and get back to her son?

For what feels like at least a minute, silence stretches between them.

“Sorry,” Harry finally says, surprising himself. “Your mum is brave. I didn’t mean to—”

“Forget it, Potter. Let’s just—”

A nearby rustle distracts Malfoy. He and Harry both look about them to see what caused it. Malfoy releases a slow, hitching breath. “I’ve never seen one before,” he confides as a thestral approaches them.

“I have.”

“I know.” For a few beats, only the noise of the thestral’s hooves impacting the pliant ground can be heard as it walks straight over to Harry and Draco. Then, Malfoy swallows thickly. “Potter,” he says. He’s looking away from Harry and the bizarre, beautiful creature in front of them. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry… about— I’m sorry about a lot of things. I’m sorry about all the times I bullied you about your parents, and about Black.”

The unexpected apology unsteadies Harry. He doesn’t know what to say, so he reaches out to pat the thestral instead.

“They’re friendly,” he instructs, eventually. “You can pat it. Can I?” Harry moves to touch Malfoy’s hand.

Malfoy nods and lets Harry guide his pale fingers over the thestral’s back. After a moment, Harry lets go, and they each carry on petting the thestral on their own.

After a while, Malfoy chuckles darkly. “Can’t get a unicorn to so much as look my way for a month and here I am stroking one of their creepy cousins.”

The thestral shudders a bit under their hands, slighted.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Harry soothes. “Malfoy?” Harry can’t stop himself, can’t keep a hold on his curiosity. “Why d’you care so much about figuring out the whole, you know, unicorn-virginity thing?”

Malfoy keeps his eyes on the thestral and continues petting its smooth, leathery hide. Harry’s given up on getting an answer when Malfoy speaks up again, quietly. “Shit went down at the Manor.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want it. And when Hagrid said we’d be working with unicorns, at first I just didn’t… I didn’t want to know if it counted. Then I did want to know.”

Harry nods, even though Malfoy, who’s still making a point of not looking at him, can’t see it.

Finally, Harry says, in offering, “I’m not an expert on this stuff, and I reckon Hermione’s right that there’s not such thing as virginity anyway, but, for what it’s worth, I think…” Harry musters the courage to finish the thought. “I think if you didn’t want—whatever it was—it doesn’t count. That’s not...” He pauses, thinking of Justin’s spreadsheet, of the additions that had seemed like nothing more than a bit of cheek... “A lot of things might count as sex, but not that.”

Malfoy sniffs a few times and wipes at his face. “Thanks, Potter.”

The thestral nuzzles into the crook of Malfoy’s elbow. And Harry thinks, not for the first time, that the creatures’ bad reputation is unfair. He’s only know them to be reliable and peaceful and empathetic. They might not have the same kind of dainty beauty, but Harry thinks they’re a damn sight better than unicorns.

Unicorns.

A mad idea takes root in Harry’s mind.

“Malfoy,” he says. “I know what we’re going to do about the unicorns.”

***

“But you can’t be serious?” Pansy blurts. “Draco?” She says Malfoy’s name as though checking that this isn’t some feeble prank.

“I mean, that seems… you know…” Neville flails his hands around in a churning motion, as though he’ll be able to bring up the correct words.

“It seems extreme.” Padma cuts to the chase.

“Yes it does,” agrees Parvati.

“Not that we’re judging,” Hermione adds hastily.

“Not at all!” Ron agrees, throwing his arms out before him with his palms outward, as though to stop any notion that they think Harry’s plan is cracked. “We’re just surprised.”

“Yes.” Hermione nods vigorously. “We’re surprised because this plan is…”

“Extreme,” Padma repeats.

“Please don’t tell me we’re entertaining this?” Ernie scoffs. “Surely we’ve spent the last month trying to save the unicorns. Not to create some kind of macabre hybrid.” Ernie looks pleased with himself. Harry thinks it’s probably for using ‘macabre’ in a sentence. “And no offence, Harry, mate, but since when do you care about this project? Since when are you involved?” 

“Since he put his name on the petition Hagrid and I wrote up to try and get the Ministry to look favourably on it.” Malfoy comes to Harry’s defense. Ernie looks stroppy. Harry gives Malfoy a grateful smile. 

“Look,” Harry begins. “I know it’s not what any of you had in mind, and I know I haven’t taken this project seriously until now, but if we don’t want the Hogwarts unicorns to go extinct, and we can’t get a male into the Forest, what alternatives do we have?”

“But they wouldn’t really be unicorns, would they?” Hannah asks. “I mean, who knows what they’d be like—what they’d look like.”

Harry has thought about that. There’s no telling what a unicorn-thestral hybrid might look like. Will it have wings? Or a horn? Or both? Will it resemble a unicorn at all? Or will it be a totally different creature? And, if it is, would that be so bad?

“Appearances aren’t everything,” says Lavender firmly. 

Parvati looks at Lavender, with moist eyes. “You’re beautiful, Lav.” Parvati raises herself up onto her toes to press a kiss to the scarring on Lavender’s face.

Zabini sniffs, and Harry prepares to throw himself between Parvati, Lavender, and any belittling comments Zabini might be about to sling at their tender moment. 

None come. Zabini clears his throat and looks right at Harry and Malfoy where they’re stood side by side, taking flak for their mad idea. “Well, Speccy, Pointy? What do we do next?”

“Softy,” Justin mutters, elbowing Zabini playfully and taking his hand with a squeeze.

***

“That’s quite a plan.” McGonagall sounds unconvinced. “You all support this?” she asks the eighth-years, all crowded around her desk. “It would undoubtedly be a difficult course of action.” 

“Some motherfucker’s always trying to ice skate uphill,” Zabini observes sagely.

Zabini’s been quoting the phrase ever since his trip to the cinema, but uttered in front of McGonagall it elicits a shocked gasp from the eighth-years. Hannah puts her hand over her mouth reflexively. Hermione visibly inches farther away from Zabini.

McGonagall levels Zabini with a steely gaze. “Indeed, Mr Zabini.”

After another beat of silence, Malfoy says hurriedly, “We know it’s unexpected, Professor, but we don’t see another viable plan. In the absence of a unicorn stud, we think that this is the best option to avoid outright extinction. The Hogwarts unicorns share the magical resonance of their habitat with the thestrals. We think that’s a foundation upon which we can build to encourage them to breed across species.”

Harry’s impressed with how well spoken Malfoy sounds, which he shouldn’t be, really, considering Malfoy had done several practice runs in their dorm that morning. Even after hearing Malfoy’s spiel at least ten times, hearing him say things like “viable plan” and “a foundation upon which we can build” stirs something in Harry. It’s interesting, he thinks, how Malfoy’s eloquence and bloodymindedness looks so different, so appealing, when directed towards saving woodlands creatures rather than collaborating with dark lords.

“What do you make of this, Hagrid? Do you think such a thing is even possible? Would the offspring be viable?” 

Harry looks up at Hagrid’s face. It’s beaming. “I can’ say fer sure either way, Headmistress.” Hagrid looks at Harry proudly. “But I’d be right pleased ter give it a go.”

Warmth floods Harry.

“Professor?”

“Yes, Ms Granger?”

“I think Harry and Malfoy’s plan is a good one. But it’s also our only one. What could be the harm of proceeding with it as we wait for mating season? If another possibility presents itself in the meantime, there’s no reason we have to stick with this one.”

“Well reasoned, Ms Granger. I confess this is not exactly what I had in mind when I set you all to assist Professor Hagrid with the unicorns. However, I _did_ expect each of you take initiative, to think on your feet, and to adapt yourselves to the difficult working conditions that confronted you. I wish you all to know that you have done your professors—and your school— proud.”

Hermione looks like she’s achieved praise nirvana. Harry’s glad to see her so happy. And, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not unmoved by McGonagall’s words. 

So when McGonagall dismisses the lot of them, but requests that Harry stay behind for word with her and Hagrid, he abruptly feels like being forced out into the cold after settling down near a warm hearth.

Hermione and Ron look at Harry questioningly, while Malfoy gives him a knowing look. Harry tips his head to the side and smiles weakly. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”

When the office is empty but for him, McGonagall, and Hagrid, Harry doesn’t wait for McGonagall to speak first. “I’m sorry Professor. I’m sorry for legging it last time I was here. And that goes for you too, Hagrid, when we were having tea.”

Hagrid smiles and shakes his head softly, as though dismissing the apology—as though it’s unneeded.

Harry’s heart swells with gratitude.

“Thank you, Mr Potter, I am sure I speak for Hagrid and myself when I say that it’s appreciated. But I also owe you an apology—”

“No, Professor. I—”

McGonagall raises a hand, gesturing for quiet. “Potter, it’s clear I mishandled your situation.”

Harry’s about to take umbrage with the idea that he has a “situation”, but McGonagall must sense it, because she quickly appends, “I do not expect you to talk about it with me, Potter. Or even with Hagrid or Mr Weasley or Ms Granger.”

Relief floods through Harry.

“That said, I would be remiss if I did not make every effort to address any situation that was troubling one of my pupils so profoundly that said pupil is unable to attend class.”

Just as quickly as it came, Harry’s relief drains out of him; he would swear he could feel it, rushing out through his stomach. He was practically unconscious when he’d walked into the Forest, when Malfoy had followed him. He’d been spurred on by incandescent rage. And he’s fairly sure that if Malfoy hadn’t brought up his own wounds, hadn’t drawn Harry’s focus so completely away from his own, he would have had another panic attack when it properly settled into his conscious mind where exactly he was. “Professor, please don’t force me to go to Care of Magical Creatures. Not as long as it’s in the Forest. I’m so sorry, Hagrid, it’s nothing to do with you, I sw—”

“Potter, calm down.”

“No one’s goin’ ter force yeh, Harry.”

“I don’t have to go?”

“No, Mr Potter, you do not.”

Harry feels blindsided. He never expected to be excused from class. He expected to receive a thorough dressing down at the very least.

“Thank you, Pr—”

“That does not mean that you will continue to make your own schedule while your classmates work in the Forest.” McGonagall does not emphasise the last word, but it could not be plainer that, even if she doesn’t know the particularities of Harry’s mind, she’s worked out that it’s the scene of the crime that’s triggering him.

“Will I have a different class? Or make up work? Or—”

“You will receive counselling two mornings a week during what would otherwise be class time.”

“No,” Harry declines. “No thank you, Professor.”

“Give the headmistress her due, Harry.” Hagrid advises gently. “She’s got yer best interests in mind.”

“Thank you, Hagrid.” McGonagall nods appreciatively. “Potter, I’ll speak frankly. I can’t allow any student, not even you, to miss three classes a week with impunity, no matter how valid your reasons may be. I can, however, excuse you from those classes on the proviso that you spend those hours addressing whatever it is that is causing you to avoid the Forest in the first place. I cannot say that I am knowledgeable about therapy, but I have talked to Madam Pomfrey.” She holds up a finger to silence Harry as he opens his mouth to object. “I have spoken to Madam Pomfrey hypothetically. Your name was kept out of it, although I trust her implicitly to keep all matters of students’ health confidential. Madam Profrey is of the opinion that magical healing as it stands is woefully unable to address matters of mental health. She feels counselling would be a more effective means of addressing an issue of trauma than dosing someone with potions or simply asking them to keep a stiff upper lip.”

“Where would you find a counsellor?” Harry asks, clinging to the idea that magical Healers are not equipped to work as therapists, that he might get a reprieve if there’s no one for the job. If he were to see a Muggle therapist, he wouldn’t be able to come within ten feet of any of the thoughts that are plaguing him—thoughts of curses and Hallows and Horcruxes and spectres and Voldemort. On the other hand, if it gave him a ready-made excuse to avoid these topics, maybe a Muggle therapist would be the ticket.

“A counsellor has already been found and retained. A professional acquaintance of Madam Pomfrey—a Squib. She has Muggle training, but also knows all about the war.”

Shit. Harry thinks fast. “What about the third morning, Professor? What will I be doing then?”

A genuine smile crosses McGonagall’s face for the first time since this conversation began. “Ah, as to that. Madam Hooch has offered you a position as an aide in her first-year flying class once a week. In order to avoid mass disgruntlement, we’ll stagger your appointments weekly so that you spend time the different first-year classes.”

Harry is floored. In all the time he spent imagining how McGonagall might punish him for skiving off, it never occurred to him that she might… not. That McGonagall might understand—well, not understand, but empathise despite her lack of understanding and work to accommodate him, to help him. The idea of spending the odd morning flying, teaching first-years who might never have flown before, who might not even have known they had magic until they got their Hogwarts letters…

“But Professor, couldn’t I spend all three mornings with Madam—”

“No, Potter, you could not. This offer is intended to accommodate you. That is, to help you to learn to cope with what right now seems insurmountable. I regret that Hogwarts has not been able to support you as you need so far this year, Mr Potter. That goes for your classmates as well.”

 _Malfoy_ , Harry thinks. And he knows it’s not just Malfoy. They might not have any issues with fire or the Forbidden Forest, but Hermione and Ron and Lavender and Parvati and Neville and Ginny and Luna and the rest who fought with him all have war wounds of their own.

“Rest assured, you are not the only student who will receive counselling. Dr. Phair will be joining the Hogwarts staff permanently. It is been a gross oversight of the school’s administrators—including myself—not to attend to the mental health of our students and staff. It’s an error I aim to correct.”

Harry has no reply. 

McGonagall reaches behind her desk, pulls opens a drawer and removes a piece of parchment. She hands it to Harry. “Your new weekly schedule. Madam Hooch and Dr. Phair will both expect you to arrive promptly each morning ready to work.”

“Yes, Professor.” Harry accepts the schedule from McGonagall. It doesn’t feel like caving, like conceding. It feels like standing on the precipice of a cliff, like possibility. It feels scary as hell.

“Have you any questions, Mr Potter?”

“Just one, Professor.”

Her look bids him to continue.

Harry looks at Hagrid. “Can I come by for a cuppa?”

Hagrid claps him round the shoulder with a jovial “O’ course,” and Harry loses his balance under the force of it all.

***

The first Quidditch match of the year is played between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw on Halloween. Despite how many of them are competing against each other in fantasy Quidditch, the eighth-years decide to sit in their respective house stands, since there is no good neutral space to hold them all. Ginny’s gone to sit with Luna to cheer on Ravenclaw, because she’s a good lover, and also because her fantasy team comprises both of their Beaters and one Chaser.

As it’s the first match of the season, its impact on the outcome of the House Cup standings won’t be known for ages, so the match feels friendly and the mood on the pitch is light. Although Gryffindor isn’t playing, Harry is still invested in the match; he’s hoping against hope for a World Cup 1994-esque outcome, as his fantasy Keeper and one Chaser are from Ravenclaw, but his Seeker is a promising fourth-year Hufflepuff.

Ideally, he’d be playing this year. He’d be captain of the house team, not Ginny, making mental notes about the form of the Ravenclaw Chasers and how well the Hufflepuff Beaters work as a unit, and tells to look out for in both Seekers when he faces them. But he’s not playing, and Ginny is a good captain, and fantasy Quidditch has offered him a different form of engagement.

And all that besides, Harry has been enjoying flying this month. Once a week he’s hovering low over the ground with Madam Hooch, trying to coax exceedingly nervous firsties to fly a little higher each time. It’s more rewarding than he’d expected, actually, seeing the sense of accomplishment that crosses their faces when Harry compliments their stability or Madam Hooch gives their house five points for good form in the air. Harry tells Dr. Phair how much he enjoys it. She always listens and presses him to tell her more about how it makes him feel. She encourages him to talk about other things as well. Sometimes he does. He’s told her a bit about how much resentment he carries towards the Dursleys, and scratches the surface of his grief about Sirius, about Remus, about his parents. He wouldn’t be talking about any of these subjects, for preference. But Dr. Phair encourages him to push a little beyond his comfort zone each week. Crafty woman quickly worked out that the best way to get results from a Gryffindor is to challenge them. And yet, she’s never pushy, never aggressive. Harry hasn’t told her about King’s Cross yet. He still can’t, but for the first time he feels like maybe he could, at some point down the road, in his own time.

Madam Hooch blows her whistle and brings Harry’s attention back to the match. 

As the players launch themselves into the air, Harry’s eyes seek out Malfoy in the Slytherin stands. Harry spends the match alternately looking for the Snitch and checking whether Malfoy has caught a glimpse of it. Harry’s determined to spot it first.

***

After the Halloween feast (during which Hufflepuff celebrated their victory loudly, but not ungraciously), the eighth-years plus Ginny and Luna eagerly retreat to the common room en masse. Justin’s been talking up Thriller for a month, refusing to let anyone play the album before the thirty-first.

Pansy moves to put the album on, but Justin shouts, “NO! Not until midnight!”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Control freak, much, Finch-Fletchley? That’s not an insult, of course. It’s no less than Blaise deserves for pairing up with the only bloke in the British Isles more high maintenance as he is.”

“He wishes,” Zabini dismisses. “I’m way higher maintenance.” Justin turns his head towards Zabini and sticks out the tip of his tongue. Zabini leans in to give it a tiny lick. Harry’s stomach rolls.

Pansy selects a different album and gets it playing.

“Yes!” Ginny shouts with a first pump. She grabs each of Luna’s hands in her own and pulls her up to dance. Words fill the room: ‘A friend in need’s a friend indeed, a friend with weed is better…”

“A friend with breasts and all the rest, a friend who’s dressed in leather!” Ginny scream-sings as Luna twirls her around, dance moves completely at odds with the mood of the music.

Not to be outdone, Justin and Zabini join them in twirling and singing about the merits of friends dressed in leather.

After a couple of songs, Ginny and Luna flop down again. 

“We should get out of here again soon,” Parvati says, gesturing to the walls. “See another film or something, all together, you know?”

“Definitely!” Neville says. 

“I’d definitely see _Blade_ again,” Zabini calls from where he’s grinding lewdly against Justin, who’s returning the favour with interest.

“You’re not picking this time,” Dean chides.

“It’d be good to get some more records as well.” Hermione gestures to the still-small collection near the gramophone. Despite your efforts at _Virgin_ , three black musicians hardly make for diverse representation.”

“Don’t get me going on the total absence of Asian artists in this collection, Granger,” Pansy warns.

“No kidding,” laments Parvati. “It’s harder than you’d think to find much in the store, though.”

“We can start our own band when we graduate,” Padma says to a round of high fives and enthusiastic “YES!”s. “We’ll address the lack of magical music and inclusion in one rocking swoop.”

“Can any of us even play an instrument?” Hermione kills the buzz with her practical question. “I can’t sing a note... ”

“Would the Spice Girls worry about that, Hermione?” Justin calls from the makeshift dance floor.

“Point taken.”

The song changes again and a slower one begins. Justin and Zabini take a break from dancing.

“So, cinema next weekend, then?” Pansy asks hopefully. “I would like to see what all the fuss is about.”

“What should we see?” Padma asks the group. 

“Good question,” Dean says. “I’m not exactly up on what’s coming out these days. And some of the stuff that was playing when we were there last time will not be playing anymore.”

Justin waves a hand dismissively. “We’ll just take a vote when we get there.”

“But how’ll we know what’s to vote for?” Neville wonders.

“I’ll be deciding based on which film has the fittest stars on the poster. The rest of you are on your own.” Justin winks—fucking winks!—at Zabini.

The song changes again, and a noise of appreciation leaves Parvati’s throat. “I love this song.”

Lavender pulls Parvati from her spot beside her into Lavender’s lap. Parvati leans into Lavender’s chest. She looks comfortable and embarrassed about it.

From the gramophone a voice whines: “I… take the plan, spin it sideways, I… fall, without you, I’m nothing, without you, I’m nothing.”

“What an unhealthy sentiment.” Luna wrinkles her nose.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Luna! It’s supposed to be romantic.” Lavender giggles.

“Exactly how is it romantic to depend so much on another person that you feel like nothing without them?” Hermione argues.

“Don’t intellectualise it,” Dean recommends. “Artists think their pain is deep.”

The evening presses on. Each time an album ends, a new one takes its place. When Hermione puts on _Celebrity Skin_ , even Neville gets up to join the others jumping up and down and screaming along about waking up in make-up.

Harry thinks it’ll be a miracle if McGonagall doesn’t send Sinistra to tell them all to shut up and go to bed.

For his part, Harry’s not dancing. He’s got a fucking lush spot on the sofa, and he wouldn’t dream of giving it up, even if he did feel like dancing, which he doesn’t.

And if he were dancing, it’d be hard to stare at Malfoy, who’s sat on the rug by the cold hearth egging Pansy on as she dances atrociously.

Suddenly, Harry doesn’t care so much about someone filching his spot. He pushes himself to his feet and walks the few short steps over to Malfoy. 

“Mind if I join you?”

Malfoy gestures to his side. “By all means, Potter, pull up some rug.”

Now that he’s here, at Malfoy’s side, Harry can’t think of a single thing to say that doesn’t sound idiotic. But he has years of practice feeling foolish around Malfoy, so he dives in.

“How’s project thestralcorn coming?”

“We are absolutely not calling them that.”

“What’s wrong with thestralcorn?” 

“It’s Gryffindor fiddle faddle.”

“But it was my idea!”

“That doesn’t mean you get to foist a horrible name upon the poor creatures. You can name any inane projects you spearhead with Hooch.”

“You’re just jealous I get to impart the noble art of flying onto the first years.”

Malfoy laughs. “Yeah, right. I really wish I were herding kneazles on a weekly basis.”

“You’re not far off the mark,” Harry admits.

“Hooch doesn’t need to worry for her job, then?”

“Hardly.”

“So then…” Malfoy hesitates. “Will you be joining us back in the Forest anytime?”

“Will you allow a fire anytime soon?” Harry deflects. “I swear it’s below zero in here and it’s not even winter!”

“I’ll knit throw blankets.”

“You can knit? Will you teach me?”

Malfoy shakes his head as though he despairs of Harry.

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy asks. He sounds amused. It doesn’t sound to Harry like the attention is unwanted.

Still, Harry thinks about the question for a moment. 

“Honestly?” He wants to be completely over this whole Forest thing. He wants the thestralcorn plan to work. He wants inspiration to hit about what he should do after Hogwarts. But right now he mostly wants to touch Malfoy. And not because one of them is breaking down. But just because—because it would be nice.

Harry musters his Gryffindor courage. “I pretty much just want to hold your hand, Malfoy.”

“What is this, some dramatic reenactment of the handshake that wasn’t? I thought we’d been friends—more or less—for a while.”

“Don’t make fun, Malfoy. I’m serious.”

Malfoy looks Harry in the eye, and his expression shifts from half-defensive-half-amused to… Harry’s not sure—something warmer, something interested, something pleased.

Malfoy says nothing. He looks down at his own hand, and turns it over, so that his palm is facing up, the back resting on his thigh. He looks up to Harry, and back down to his hand and nods in encouragement.

Harry takes it.

“This is a bad idea, you know,” Malfoy warns, but he doesn’t sound critical and he doesn’t let go.

“The worst,” Harry agrees.

“You’re the only person around here who’s a bigger mess than I am.”

“I thought maybe we could be a mess together,” Harry says, aiming for levity.

“Adding mess to mess equals bigger mess, you realise, Potter.”

“Maybe we can...” Harry scrubs at the back of his neck with his free hand. He feels like a bellend, but he’s already made a fool of himself. “...I don’t know… Help each other tidy up?”

Malfoy lets out a bark of laughter and dissolves in a laughing fit. Harry follows suit.

After a minute or two, they compose themselves. 

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy says, wiping honest-to-goodness tears of laughter from eyes. “You really know how to torture a metaphor.”

If Malfoy has more to say about Harry’s hokeyness, it’s cut off by loud door-creaking sounds. Harry and Malfoy whip their heads towards the door in tandem. It’s still closed, though, and Harry quickly realises that the noise came from the gramophone.

“Potter?” 

“Mm?”

“What’s Finch-Fletchley doing?”

“The moonwalk.”

“How’s he doing that?”

“Dark magic.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than the hugely important issue of getting consent in sexual situations (which I leave to other CF authors), I was interested in exploring the seemingly small "day-to-day" interactions between people in which consent is often overlooked: non-sexual touches, personal disclosures, and, in the magical context, the application of spells to others' bodies. I also wanted to use Draco's storyline with the unicorns to address that non-consensual interactions are NOT sex. Contrarily, the virginity panic among some of the eighth years was a really fun way to explore all the things people can get up to that can be sex, if we decide they are. Above all, though, I wanted to tell a story that shows that consent, at the end of the day, is not only about respecting physical boundaries for propriety's sake, but also about fostering deep, genuine empathy for the feelings and wellbeing of others.


End file.
